


Of Ghosts and Carols

by HathorAroha



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, part retelling part crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-02-11 06:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12929271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HathorAroha/pseuds/HathorAroha
Summary: A few days before Christmas one year, Prince Adam, already turned selfish and bitter by his past and by his now-deceased father, is visited by an Enchantress who foretells his visitation by three ghosts who will show him his past, present, and what may be in his future if he does not learn to try to open his heart again to love now that his cruel father is dead.





	1. Stave I: The Enchantress Appears

Where our story begins, Prince Adam’s father was already dead for a good few years. He had not been much loved by anyone, in or out of the castle, and, while they had heeded the traditional thirty days of mourning, no sooner had day 31 arrived, then off went all the black mourning garb. The cruel prince had left behind a grown man, a young prince Adam whom he had long ago twisted up to be just like him when his mother had passed away. He had forbidden anyone to intercede on the boy’s behalf from the day his mother died, and from then on, all had turned away from Adam.

And so, in the absence of such love and companionship, a void in Adam’s heart had opened up, growing deeper and darker with each passing year, even past his father’s eventual death. It didn’t matter what he did to try and fill that abyss, it stayed relentlessly empty. Whatever he tried to fill it with, it was swallowed until nothing remained, even when he tried filling this with ecstatic pleasure with woman after woman, still the abyss gaped wide open. He threw the most lavish of parties only the invitees could participate in, his servants relegated to the periphery of the gathering, and  _still_ that abyss of isolation taunted him, made worse every Christmas when the servants made great fuss about the jolly season.

For, tragically, with that long ago death of his mother, then too went any hopes of more happy Christmases. Not even in the self-same year of his mother’s death did he have a happy Christmas, with not even one present to show anyone still thought of him. The servants, too, had turned away, silent, even on Christmas day. Little wonder from then on he vowed Christmas was the worst day of the year, and little surprise too that he began ignoring the servants as a whole, relegating them into the background, no more important than their own stations and roles required them to be 

Yet, for all his bitterness, Adam didn’t forbid Christmas from the castle—no!—he didn’t hatehis servants, his household, that much. Hate wasn’t the first word he would use to describe his apathy to the servants—no, that was entirely too potent a word, wrapped in terrible connotation. Rather, Adam ignored them, even if he grew more bitter with each passing Christmas. If he entered a room where they were singing carols together, the song hit a caesura, and laughter stopped. Silence. A rest stop with a fermata. No more merrymaking whenever he entered a room, just them looking at him expectantly, waiting for some order or other. And it made him all the more bitter when no sooner had he shut the door upon exiting, the merrymaking resumed with much joviality.

But! On having stated all of this, if there was but one silver lining to Adam’s lonely Christmases, it was that alone of his household, it was Chip who would wish him a happy Christmas, even if mumbled quickly in passing when no one else was around to stop him. It did not chase away the bitter isolation and loneliness of the occasion, but it did soften his heart at least a little toward the child. At least there was one here who bothered to wish him a Happy Christmas at all.

* * *

As it were, now this joyous occasion was upon them once again, the castle alive with much preparation for the day. Even Cogsworth got utterly caught up in Christmas’s whirlwind. Adam caught him belting out carols as he and Chip helped decorate the palace with baubles and garlands. Mrs Potts baked Christmas cookies in the kitchen by the dozen—ginger, cinnamon, chocolate…oh! Such enticing smells—once upon a time. Now all these aromas did was bring back memories that might once have wrapped him up in a warm layer of nostalgia, but now just made him feel worse. Lumiere bust out into song at least a dozen or so times a day, catching up Plumette into great, sweeping dances that had them careening into more than a few Christmas decorations, but carried on nevertheless, like nothing had happened. What a happy scene, and he would never be a part of it, without anything to show he once had been so warmly included in the celebrations.

Well! Christmas was a silly, frivolous holiday anyway, and he didn’t really miss it that much, all things considered. He would have much preferred it cease all together, but nor did he like to deprive the servants and Chip of what brought them so much love and joy. It, however, didn’t mean he had to  _like_ it. Tolerate it, make the “best” of it, even if he hated every minute of the occasion. Christmas, a time for love and family.  _Bah! Humbug!_

* * *

Then, late one night, a few days shy of Christmas Day itself, while he pored over letters at his desk in his study, the candlelight fluttered out with a gust of wind, though the windows were shut tight against the bitter winter outside. He glared at the traitorous lamp, as though to demand why it decided to putter out  _now;_  at the same moment he had that creeping sensation of someone else being in the room with him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, goosebumps ran down his arms, the hairs standing erect under his sleeves. The room glowed with amber light, as though a candle were still lit, though the lamp on his desk was the only one, and its wick still breathed grey smoke into the wintry air. Outside his study, he could hear the faint sounds of his staff singing a carol, led by Plumette in her alto voice.

_We wish you a Merry Christmas_

_We wish you a Merry Christmas_

_And a Happy New Year._

Adam shut his eyes tight, trying to block out that infernal Christmas cheer, and ignore whoever was in the room with him. But the presence did not ignore him in turn, speaking from behind him.

“Look at me.”

These three words were whispered in a woman’s voice, sounding both young like himself and old like a hag’s all at once. It was a voice that trembled with authority, and, though he resisted, fought against it, Adam found himself standing up nonetheless, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape as he spun around to meet the new presence in his private study.

On seeing the apparition before him, Adam’s jaw dropped open, heart pounding upon seeing the beauty of the visage’s face. Her long white-blonde hair floated around her face, her ice-blue eyes were the same colour of the sky, her lips were ruby red, and her body seemed to be wrapped in a golden cocoon of light. She neither frowned nor smiled at him, continuing to gaze straight into, Adam was sure, his own soul.

Realising he had been staring at her for the last several seconds, Adam mentally shook himself. Who did she think she was, barging into his study, much less his castle, in so offensive a manner!

“Who are you?” he demanded. “How did you get here?”

She lifted her chin, looking down her nose at him. “I am a powerful Enchantress, and I have come here to tell you of the spirits who will visit you—”

Adam laughed, derisive. “Spirits!”

If she was bothered by his derision, she showed no reaction whatsoever.

Instead, “Three in all, one who will come tonight, the second who will come tomorrow night, and the third the night after.”

“I shall have my servants turn them away.”

“No servant shall see or turn them away even if they could.”

“I’ll throw them back out in the cold myself!” Adam declared, his voice turning hard, “How  _did_ you come in here?”

“Magic.”

“Magic?” a bitter laugh, hollow as the darkness outside, the window reflecting the woman’s glowing aura. “ _Magic?_ ”

“I am an Enchantress,” the woman said again, voice as calm as before, “And I am here to warn you of what will happen if you do not learn to salvage your last memories of what it means to love.”

Adam snorted at this.

“Love? I never needed anyone in my life!”

The Enchantress stared at him, her gaze piercing, so intense it seemed his very heart burned under her look. He tried to resist her intensity, the way she pried open his soul with a glance, reading what he didn’t want her to read.

“Is that so?”

“I do  _fine_ with my own company!”

“Perhaps you might change—”

“Change my mind?  _Hah!_ ”

A silence fell, unspoken challenges hanging in the air between them. Her lips twisted up into a smile—not of humour, nor quite of sadness. Rather, Adam thought, somewhere in between the two.

“You don’t believe a word now.”

“Never.”

“I tell you this, Prince Adam!” the enchantress declared, her voice ringing off every surface in the room, the papers rustling and flying off his desk in the wind; there had to be a draft in here somehow—what else could explain this sudden gust? And yet the papers swirled around and the Enchantress floated higher up before him, more tendrils of light seeming to emit from her very body. Her eyes grew icier, a flash of anger deep in them, an anger so deep he couldn’t help but flinch, swallow even though his throat had become unnaturally dry.

“Tonight, as the clock strikes one, you will be visited by the ghost of Christmas Past.”

“Past?”

The Enchantress swept an arm out, “The past of your childhood and of your Christmases before!”

“Why would I want to see more of this godforsaken day?”

“You may learn something.”

“What, that no one cared enough to wish me Merry Christmas in my life?”

The Enchantress simply tilted her head, her floating hair shifting with her movement.

“Tomorrow night, at the self-same hour of one in the morning, you will be visited by the spirit of Christmas present.”

“I don’t need a ghost to show me  _that,_ ” he glowered at her, resentment thick in his tense posture, “I have eyes.”

“The third night, two nights from now, you will be visited by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.”

“This Christmas? Next Christmas?”

The Enchantress offered him a cool gaze, her lips twisting in what might easily have been a smile as much as it might have been a frown, perhaps of displeasure.

“You will find out in your own time.”

“What is the meaning of all these apparitions you speak of?”

“That you might learn love awaits you—” she swept up a hand to stop him interrupting, “—for what haunts you holds you back.”

“What is that supposed to tell me?”

She shook her head, as mysterious as ever. “You will learn, if you are willing. I offer you this in the small hope it may save you a more painful and cursed fate. Remember, the first tonight at one in this very room.”

And before Adam could speak a word more, the apparition vanished, the light snuffing out at once, leaving the prince standing, stunned in the dark. He stood there, he knew not how long, perhaps a minute at most, staring at the place from where she had vanished. It was only the distant lilting of Plumette’s singing that came from at once right outside his door and on the other side of the castle that brought him back to his senses.

_No more let sins and sorrows grow,_

_Nor thorns infest the ground…_

Somewhere, a clock chimed ten times, and behind him, the candle flickered back into life, the flame burning steady on its wick without even the tiniest of flutters. Too, the paper that had been flying around the room, as if caught in a whirlwind, had settled back upon his desk just as though nothing had happened at all.

He wasn’t one to believe this strange apparition, whatever it—or she—was, but something told him he had to wait here, wait till one in the morning, to see if this ghost of hers would appear. Where ordinarily Adam would have simply gone back to bed for the night, something urged him to stay where he was, at least wait until one in the morning, if nothing more than to humour this apparition and her words. He would feel silly when one in the morning came around with nothing extraordinary to speak of, but at least he would rest easy knowing it was nothing to pay any more heed to.

Adam sat back down at his desk, his attention now returned entirely to the letters he had been responding to. There was surely enough here to keep him up till one anyway, a good as excuse as any should anyone ask questions about why he was up so late.

 _Just a strange turn,_ he told himself, picking up his quill,  _no one will appear tonight. The hour will be as ordinary as any other._


	2. Stave II: The Ghost of Christmas Past

Adam jerked as he heard the clock outside his study chime midnight. Two hours had already passed, and only one hour remained until the first spirit was said to come. But how was it he had only managed to finish two letters thus far? Had time behaved strangely, going faster than he thought it did? Or had he momentarily fallen asleep—perhaps for a minute or so and time had simply just passed him by?

Either way, there was now nothing for it but to wait for the next hour to strike, but dear me—how sleepy he felt right now!

_Perhaps I should just go to bed—why am I putting up with this ridiculous nonsense?_

He must have imagined the Enchantress; surely a vision brought on by lack of sleep? But he remembered, still, the strange chilly wind in the room, the way his papers had flown around his study like a flock of crows, and then resettled on his desk at the presence’s leave like nothing had happened. Still he remembered the hypnotic gaze, so ice-blue, so crystal clear like looking straight into the heart of a glacier, and still he remembered with keen clarity how her blonde hair floated like woven threads of sunlight.

His quill slipped between his fingers, smudging the letter beneath it. The feather brushed light against the back of his hand as it tumbled against the paper. The candle fluttered as if to laugh at such clumsiness from a prince who really ought to have been more careful.

_“Your writing is sloping again!”_

He flinched—the words had rung so clear that he found himself whipping his head aside to look over his shoulder. And there, in the flickering shadows, was—no-one. But for a moment he saw the outline of his least favourite tutor, the one who had rapped his knuckles again and again, always seeing at least one thing wrong with his handwriting no matter how hard he had tried.

_“Your margins are too narrow!”_

This was getting too much for Adam—sleep was getting to him; even the castle had now fallen silent. Plumette no longer sung in the hallways—or was that her voice, still, singing so far away? Listening harder, yes, yes, he could tell it was her, and joined in a duet by her dearest Lumiere. But it couldn’t be Lumiere, could it? The voice was too high pitched, with the notes of a child and not a man. Maybe she sang with Chip, but would not Mrs Potts have had him bundled off to bed already?

With a groan, he slumped back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the wooden armrests, frowning down at the paper and quill. He crossed his legs, one over on top of the other, under his desk, tapping his foot against its back.

_Why am I doing this? This is ludicrous! What would father would say of this?_

Oh, he could imagine all too well what his father would say! He’d sneer, demand why he listened to visions that were brought on by sleep deprivation. He’d tell him to go to bed and forget this ridiculous nonsense. Magic did not exist! There was no such thing as magic!

But something bade him to stay anyway, and he _could_ get away with a little nap. Just as he was thinking of this, his head, of its own accord, began to droop forward in a heavy drowsiness. The weight of his head falling forward onto his chest jerked him awake, body convulsing with his starting. He blinked once, twice, listened for any chiming, but there was none. Had he gone to sleep already? Plumette and the child’s singing had already fallen silent, leaving only the hooting of an owl somewhere outside his window.

_I’ll just sleep a few minutes and when I wake it will be morning._

He let his head drop forward again to his chest, eyes falling shut with the weight of fatigue, letting himself fall into the deep nothingness of sleep.

_Clang!_

Adam jumped awake, heart startled into a faster tempo in his chest, drawing his feet back flat on the floor as he sat up in his chair, looking around. Had the clock outside already chimed the first hour of the deepest night after midnight? He listened keenly—perhaps it would chime again, and it would be five in the morning, and soon he would hear the first of his servants walking around the hallways ready for a day’s chores, lighting the fires to keep away the winter chill.

He listened. The owl outside hooted once, and fell quiet, its white silhouette flying past his window a moment later, eyes flashing in the wintry night. The room itself grew ever more drafty, and Adam could see his breath condensing in the light of the candle. His jaw chattered; the prince rubbed his arms furiously to try and ease some warmth back into his bones. Wiggling his toes, he could feel his feet too were getting chilly.

Only—he was fastidious, making sure that no room he used on a frequent basis was ever allowed to be drafty. Cogsworth would have made sure that this was closely heeded to. And usually his favourite study, the one he was in now, was the least drafty room in the castle.

_Nothing._

Nothing to speak of to hint at a presence of the first “ghost” that the visage had spoken to him of. Standing up, he spun around to look behind him and—nothing. There was nothing in the shadows he could see but for the thin amber line of light hinting at candles still burning low in the hallway outside his study, lighting his way back to his bedroom should he so choose to go back to bed.

Seeing himself safe from any silly idea of spectres, Adam started to laugh quietly, his shoulders shaking with his mirth.

“ _Hah!_ ” he burst out, “There is nothing here! Adam, thou art a fool of fools!”

What _had_ overcome him before to make him think this was all true? Magic! Surely a thing of fiction!

“There is no such thing as magic!”

He could have almost done a jig right there and then, but he wasn’t about to shatter his own dignity, even if there wasn’t an audience to witness him breaking into dance without a note of music. Who _did_ that anyway? Audience or no audience, he turned around and leaned over his desk to snap shut his curtains and go to bed for the night, grabbing the candle as he turned to go. In the morning he would forget all of this had happened.

Only—when he turned and started to head for the door, the room exploded with fiery light. His heart stopped dead in his chest.

_Fire!_

He swung back around in a sudden panic, ready to go and run off to the servants’ quarters to demand a bucket of water to douse the fire.

But he saw nothing there but for a steady, pulsing light, creamy white in its hue, behind the curtains.

_Not a fire._

But now his attention was drawn to the strange light that came from neither moon nor a great comet flashing through the night. Candle flickering in his hand, he edged back to his desk, setting the candle back down. He stared at this strange light beating with a regular tempo, a rhythm that, Adam realised, matched exactly to his own heart.

As he stared, the light pulsing to his heartbeat filled him entirely with a shiver that consumed his whole body, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as he leaned forward, still not taking his eyes off the curtained window with its pulsing white light. The light drew him forward, forward, one more inch, another. He was so close, he could reach out now, pull aside a curtain and—

“Turn around, look at me.”

He started at the new voice, its high pitch marking its speaker as a child.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

His heart nearly stopped in his chest, Adam’s hand freezing halfway to the curtain. He didn’t want to turn around, his breath strangely chilly in his lungs, his chest tight for the sudden anxiety that came with this proclamation. But he had to turn around, he had no choice, he couldn’t just ignore that voice, that voice that sounded _exactly_ like his when he was a boy.

“Look upon the past. Turn around and face me.”

Taking a deep breath, Adam slowly, inexorably turned around to face the spectre. Perhaps that Enchantress _had_ been real—perhaps he had not imagined her floating hair and blue eyes and her proclamation of visitations by ghosts of Christmases past, present, and yet to come.

Whatever he had been expecting on turning around, it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought at first it would be—for standing there in the candlelight, at once both transparent and opaque, stood himself. No, not himself as a full grown adult, but as a child, perhaps around nine years old. For this was the age he had been when his mother had died.

And he saw other things that chilled him about this ghostly child: for one, Adam—the adult, breathing, living Adam—had a shadow looming large, thrown over the room by the candlelight. Yet, this boy had none, though by rights he should have, and yet not even the faintest outline could be discerned. It disturbed Adam more than he thought it ought, not having a shadow—wait, _he_ had a shadow, but this spirit, whatever it was, had none. Not the faintest. Adam inspected the face of the boy and he saw pinprick pupils—ought they not have been dilated in this dim room? The ghost came closer to him, and Adam now saw that his hair was white, like an old man’s, though the child had the freshness of his tender age about him.

Adam forced himself to speak, trying to stop his voice from trembling.

“So. _You_ are the Ghost of Christmas Past, I take it. What do you want from me?” He didn’t bother that his voice sounded derisive. It wasn’t like this ghost could _harm_ him. He was a boy!

“You are right. I have come to show you your Christmases past.”

“How far in the past?” he asked, “A lifetime? Before my lifetime?”

The ghost stretched out a hand, and Adam looked down at it, seeing that it appeared to blur between that of a child’s hand, the harsh hand of his father, and the soft hand of his mother.

“Come with me and you shall see.”

With some apprehension, Adam held out his hand to the ghost, and stiffened a little, expecting the grasp to have the chill appropriate of a spectre from another world. When the ghost smiled, it was not unpleasant, and his tug on Adam’s hand was surprisingly strong, pulling him toward the window that opened outside to a balcony below it, but that balcony was too far down for anyone to go to it safely with a jump.

“You’re not intending us to jump out a _window_ ,” Adam demanded of the ghost, “You may, but I will not. I am mortal!”

The ghost turned back to him, calm as ever, his free hand coming up over his heart. And to the prince, it for a moment seemed almost to be the hand of his long deceased mother, but then in another moment, it was a normal child’s hand again.

“Trust me, you need only touch your hand to the pane. Open the curtains.”

This Adam did, sweeping them apart so they swung away from each other at either end of the curtain rail.

“Now touch the window and you will see the past.”

Adam regarded the window pane, the night pressing itself up against the glass, and on this very close examination, he spotted tiny flakes of snow sticking to it. Minute piles of snow were steadily growing on the window panelling on the outside. Once upon a time he would have thought even this magical, but now nothing. He hated winter, for with winter came Christmas, inexorably, inevitably.

_May as well humour the ghost._

Taking a hand, he lifted it before his face, palm forward, and gently pressed it up against the glass. He flinched and stumbled backward when the dark study abruptly fell away and he found himself standing in broad daylight, his feet ankle deep in snow, in the middle of the courtyard gardens. Snow fell around them, and the sky was impenetrable white, blue painted over with clouds. The trees were bare of leaves, and yet the snow piling on their bending branches looked exquisite in this winter wonderland. Oh, what grand, grand beauty, something of a romance and a fairy tale all in one.

Over to his left, sitting on a private bench framed by white roses, he saw a woman—his breath hitched—his _mother._ His eyes widened when he saw she was seated next to Chapeau, who looked very festive with a green suit on, and his hand, Adam saw now, entwined with hers. Even from here, he could see the look in their eyes as they stole a glance at each other over their fingers caught shy in each other’s grasp. He knew that look, it was the same sort of deep, devoted look that Plumette and Lumiere always had when they were together. Yes, oh yes! Plain to see as the nose on his face! They were in love! As devoted as any couple, their hearts belonged only to each other and no one else! Oh, if only, if _only! If only_ Chapeau had been his father, and not his own cruel one. How much happier would he have been! How could he have turned his back on Chapeau all this time?

“They—” his voice caught, and he saw out of the periphery of his vision, the ghost look at him curiously.

“Your cheeks are wet,” observed the spectre.

“It’s the snow,” Adam hastened to claim, but his voice’s catching betrayed him.

“They can neither see nor hear us,” his companion informed him, “For this is a mirror into the past.”

And then, from right around the corner, zipping along on fleet feet with the limitless energy of a happy little boy, came himself. Rather, himself as a little boy, and Adam’s heart clenched to see how… _free_ his own happiness was. When was the last time he had ever looked that happy since his mother died and his father had taken the reins of parenting? Look there! Nothing but sheer joy and delight as his young self ran to his mother, raising up his arms to enfold her in a hug and a “Merry Christmas, Mama!” And not a second too soon, he let go of his mother and did the same for Chapeau, a genuine, warm cuddle with all the untethered affection of a child devoted to those he loved. And, just like any child full of boisterous energy, he ran off again in the direction of what sounded suspiciously like Plumette and Lumiere’s laughter and chatter several feet away, hidden out of view.

How could anyone help but feel their heart swell within their chest? For, true as it can be, he felt his heart grow so big it threatened to overwhelm his soul, to bring him to his knees in tears of—of what? Perhaps joy, perhaps happiness, perhaps sadness, perhaps…he knew not what. Perhaps all of these things and more.

As the prince watched, Chapeau murmured to his mother to close her eyes before he carefully extracted an ornate gold locket with an inlaid rose hanging on a fine chain from his coat pocket, and, with tender fingers and loving touch clasped this jewel around her neck. Chapeau bade her open her eyes, and the first thing she saw was the necklace, which the man opened now to reveal a lock of golden hair inside. _Her_ hair. A token of her devotion, and the necklace a gift of his love. Adam had no earthly idea how he’d managed to get that locket, but he didn’t care. _Chapeau loved his mother._ And it suddenly made sense now, why his valet had always dressed in black even many years after her death. _He still mourned._ He still loved her, _loved her so much,_ he mourned her as sure as the day she died.

“I should’ve been kinder to him,” Adam said, his breath shaky, remembering clearly the first time he’d slammed his door shut on Chapeau, vowing never to trust or like him again. “Oh god, all this time!” And he sobbed too, the ghost silent beside him. And he vowed right there that from the moment morning came, he would be kinder to Chapeau, knowing he still loved his mother.

He couldn’t quite see whether they kissed or not—he fully liked to think so—for the scene blurred, and a tiny owl flew past, directly between them and his eyes, so he could not see them anymore. He swiped at his eyes, tried to hold back any more emotion, for he was terrified that if he let all his suppressed tears go, he would never be able to stop.

When the scene became sharp again, a chill ran down his spine. The bench was empty, with no sign of Chapeau or his mother anywhere. There was laughter in the distance, and, try as he might, he couldn’t hear a child’s laughter. A sick feeling came into his stomach as the prince put a fearful two and two together.

“Is this…another Christmas?” he asked.

“A year later.”

The ghost didn’t say anything more than that, but instead tugged on his hand again, and he found himself gliding faster than he ought to have been able to toward the castle, so they looked up at the west wing, where his room would have been. And directly below the West Wing, he spotted some of his servants playing and frolicking in the snow, with Chapeau among them. And he noticed that now Chapeau wore black from head to toe, while the others had donned festive colours. Was it just Adam or did Chapeau’s smile, as bright as it was as he walloped Lumiere in the back of his head with a snowball, seem sad somehow? Was that a twist of sadness that never quite left the corners of his mouth? Alas! Poor Chapeau!

“My mother is…gone now.”

The ghost remained silent, except to stretch out an arm, a finger pointing directly up at the west wing’s window. Adam’s breath caught when he saw the frame of a boy watching from within, his face twisted in a mix of longing and bitterness. His mind flashed back to that very self-same day— _this_ day—when he’d had no Christmas presents for the first time in his life, nor a happy Christmas meal with his beloved servants. His father had forbidden him anything of the like, the only “present” being a snide remark why he would want any. Wasn’t he a man now, an adult? Oh yes, quite, he was, indeed! Indeed he was a man at all of nine years old! _Hardly_ a man at all!

Far, far below, the servants stopped playing, stopping to catch their breath and wander off as they desired. Even Chapeau began to go, hurrying after Lumiere, but then stopped, hesitating, and turned his head to look up at the west wing. His hand began to rise up from his side, as if he might wave up at the boy looking on from the window, but the little boy turned his back on the servants. The curtains twitched shut, blocking them out completely, never seeing—as the adult prince watching did—the catch of hurt in Chapeau’s expression, the way his shoulders sagged, his hand falling limp at his side again. The valet stayed a few moments longer, watching the shut curtains as if to wait to see if the boy changed his mind, but all in vain. With a despondent attitude, Chapeau turned around and followed after the other servants.

_I was wrong,_ a stunned Adam thought, staring after Chapeau’s retreating back. _At least one most certainly desired me to have a happier Christmas than father ever let me._

But what of the other servants? They seemed happy enough to just go off and play, oblivious to a little boy’s loneliness. No one noticed Chapeau’s having glanced back, nor did anyone else seem to care to look back. And Adam knew even that _one_ glance, had he caught it in time, had he not been so bitter, would have made him just that little less angry toward at least Chapeau after all this time. Just one look to show he wasn’t completely alone in the castle, isolated from those he’d once called friends and, dare he even say, family.

“If only…” he began.

“Yes?” prompted the ghost.

“Nothing,” Adam said, “I was…thinking aloud.”

Whatever he might have had to say of what he had seen so far, he had decided in that moment to keep it in his heart, a private thought on the matter of Chapeau.

The ghost tugged on his hand again, as though to urge him forward, but they did not move from their spot. As a matter of fact, just one wave of the ghost’s free hand and Adam suddenly found himself standing in a hallway in front of the heavy doors that led into the library.

“Are we in the same day?”

“No, this is at least another year later. Let’s go inside.”

Even after all these years, Adam could not quite get over the sheer enormity of the library with its high ceiling, books from floor to ceiling, and the most comfortable seats a reader could ask for. Somewhere, he heard the frantic scratching of a quill, and he smelled an opened bottle of fresh ink. A strange apprehension overcame him then, knowing what he might find when he turned around after a few feet in the library and there! At the table! A boy, perhaps now a couple years or so older than when they’d seen him last, sitting hunched over a table. Oh he remembered, he remembered all too well how his father demanded he work on his study even on Christmas Day. Not that Adam had cared by then—anything to not see the servants having a delightful time without him. Not that they would have cared, with the exception of Chapeau, from what he had now seen so far of it.

As though he’d somehow read his thoughts, again, the ghost shook his head.

“Come over here.”

They went away again toward the doors, and at the same moment Adam heard two pairs of footsteps heading down the hall.

“Come aside,” the ghost said, and they waited next to the doors.

The owners of those two pairs of feet, it turned out, were Cogsworth and Mrs Potts. Adam thought it strange that Mrs Potts should be here at the castle—shouldn’t she be with Mr Potts back in the village on this day? But then…

“Another Christmas, Cogsworth,” Mrs Potts sighed now, “Will the Master never let me see my own husband on this day?”

Adam was sure his heart stopped right there—and why he was so shocked at this, he didn’t know. It ought not to have surprised him, this, his father barring Mrs Potts from seeing her own husband on Christmas day of all days!

“You look mad.”

That infernal ghost! Of _course_ he was mad! Mad on Mrs Potts’ account, and on his own account too, for not realising why Mrs Potts had never gone to the village on a day off, much less Christmas Day! To stay in touch with letters was one thing, but nothing, not all the words in his library could replace time together in the same place. Of all the—had they become so used to life under his father’s rule that they still lived and thought as though still under his thumb?

“…or any other day,” Mrs Potts continued now, and though she obviously tried to suppress it, Adam still heard the tiniest crack in her voice. “I miss him.”

Cogsworth patted Mrs Potts on the shoulder in sympathy. “There is nothing to be done.”

Well! Cogsworth was to be proved wrong on _that_ account if Adam could help it soon as he returned to his own time!

Now he watched as the two servants walked further in, their voices almost whispers as they talked together. Somewhere beyond the doors and down the hallway, he heard…nothing. No laughter, no singing, and he found himself yearning to hear Plumette’s voice again, leading the carols, joined in no small hesitation by her beloved Lumiere. His father’s work no doubt.

_I want to hear you sing again,_ he found himself thinking.

“No one’s singing,” he said to the ghost, “Not even Lumiere.”

_Sing again, please!_

Much as Plumette’s singing in his time had reminded him of hated Christmas, at least _he_ allowed her, and in extension the other servants, to sing as much as they desired in the Christmas season! But here—no decoration, no singing, no overt celebration.  And he had to study on Christmas too!

“…on Christmas Day of all days!” Mrs Potts’ quietly outraged tones pulled his attention back to her again, “To have to study on what should be a joyous occasion!”

“He is learning, at least.”

“On Christmas Day, Cogsworth! Do you mean to tell me there is nothing wrong about this?” Mrs Potts sounded downright indignant.

“There is nothing wrong with procuring one’s education on any day. Be honest, Beatrice, would you go to the Master and tell him?”

“I would, if I didn’t fear for my employment at the castle on challenging him on this!”

“We can do nothing,” Cogsworth was saying again, “We cannot even go to him.”

“Come, let’s move on,” the ghost urged Adam onward out of the library and down the hall. And there was Plumette down the other end of the hall, dusting in silence. He wanted to call to her, to ask her to sing again, knowing she, like the others, could neither see nor hear him.

_I will give her a bonus in her pay just for her singing,_ Adam found himself thinking. He could imagine her surprise at such a bonus. She _did_ have a most calming alto voice, he could admit that much and more to it. And he wondered, too, if somewhere he had tucked away in his library a spare book of old Christmas carols he could give to Plumette.

“You are far away.”

Adam jerked in surprise at the ghost’s voice. He _had_ drifted off for a minute there.

“I was thinking,” he said gruffly, shrugging with feigned indifference, “And shouldn’t Lumiere be here?”

“Do you not remember this year?” the ghost asked him. “When you begged him not to leave this earth?”

Another skipped heartbeat. He _did_ remember. While, true, worry for Lumiere may have been why Plumette did not sing, but Adam knew better, his _memories_ all resurfacing at once knew better. Even when Lumiere was well and at his beloved’s side, devoted as ever, they had not sung at Christmas where Adam’s father might hear them.

“She shouldn’t be dusting,” Adam found himself whispering, and he wasn’t sure who he addressed—the ghost? Plumette?—“She should be at her sweetheart’s side.”

The daylight vanished, leaving not a shred of sunlight behind. The hallway was empty—Plumette surely now at her beloved’s bedside in the servants’ quarters. Before he had a moment to second think his actions, he found himself running in that direction, the ghost keeping pace with him easily. He stumbled to a halt several feet from the doors, seeing his younger self already there. Both ghost and Adam followed the boy to where Lumiere’s room was; Plumette’s door was ajar, the room dark. Clearly, Plumette was at Lumiere’s side, there was no doubt of it.

And there she was, answering the door to Lumiere’s room when the boy knocked, shaking with the fear of a terrible dream. Plumette, at first utterly formal, let that formality go when she saw and heard just how worried the boy was, even though he remained with an air of indifference toward her. She let him in, and the boy rushed at once to the servant’s bedside—he really did look in a most awful state with the fever and all.

Adam was overcome all of a sudden with a fear—silly though it was, for he already knew the answer—that Lumiere might be lost after all.

“Will he live?” he blurted out loud, voice a-tremble as he watched his younger self reach a hand to grasp Lumiere’s own, pleading that he do not leave our mortal plane.

If Adam ever had doubts that a ghost could offer a sarcastic answer, he was now proven wrong.

“I don’t know,” the ghost said, not bothering to hide heavy irony in his words, “What do you say?”

Adam chose to remain silent, not wishing to embarrass himself any further by replying with the most obvious answer to it. Of _course_ Lumiere would live! Was he not alive and well and cheery as always in his time? Would Plumette be so happy and full of song in his time were it so that he had died? Would the _castle_ be as happy and cheery as it was in his time? Lumiere really _did_ live up to his name, always bringing light to the castle, even in those bitterest days.

Standing at the doorway into the room, Adam felt another wave of regret washing over him, knowing that after this, things would only get worse again. Once again, the servants would turn away from him, avoid him, and he didn’t know whether it hurt this much before or now, knowing that there was so much care for him even when they had to pretend not to care. Why had he not seen this? Why had he been so blind to it before?

But he knew full well why, and he didn’t need a ghost’s sarcastic response to tell him. His father’s influence had already started to win against the last of good and love there had been in his heart. He’d been convinced that the servants no longer cared, and he’d convinced himself he no longer did either. But how could that be, when there was _this_ memory before him? Bittersweet and strange!

“How strange to see this through an adult’s eyes,” Adam found himself saying aloud, “And not through a child’s.”

The ghost tugged hard on his arm, and the scene blurred, the same tiny owl flying around them, in the same direction as the world spun around them.

“What’s happening?”

“We are going forward in time.”

“Back to the present?”

“No.”

“We have already passed several years, have we not?”

“This is true,” the ghost agreed, “But one more memory. My time is almost up.”

Now he found himself in a different part of the castle, and there was Mrs Potts once again, walking down this one corridor down to the servants’ quarters from the kitchen, looking around as if to check for the Master. The smells of cinnamon, ginger, and chocolate wafting from the tray of Christmas goodies made Adam’s mouth water, and he wished again that he could remember the once upon a time when they had brought back happy memories not dulled by bitterness and isolation.

Following Mrs Potts back into the servants’ quarters, Adam stopped short when he saw a pile of presents on their table. A general cheer came up from the others when the housekeeper set down the tray of goodies, snatched up not two seconds later by Lumiere, who grabbed a couple for himself and passed it on. The servants got conversing, none the wiser that a ghost and the prince of their future was listening in.

“I’m going to go get some tea for us,” Mrs Potts declared, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

With that, Mrs Potts turned and headed back out the door, shutting it tight behind her so that none of the warmth from the merry fire would escape. The conversation, which before had been about him (he had heard his name), returned to its prior topic.

“Goodness, he really has become as bad as his father,” Plumette said now, shaking her head, “Fancy, giving back a gift from long ago.”

Adam inhaled sharply, heart pounding in his chest. He _had_ done so once or twice, in a moment of anger.

“Not even a Happy Christmas to us in a long time!” added Cogsworth, sitting back now with a beverage in hand, not minding when Lumiere slung an arm around his shoulders. “Not one!”

“I haven’t bothered in a long time to wish him so,” Plumette said, nibbling on one corner of her biscuit, “He has become more and more unpleasant the past years. I barely speak to him myself no more.”

The others made noises of agreement, but Chapeau looked away, deep lines appearing in his forehead as he frowned, eyes flashing in annoyance. His fist curled on his lap, but no one seemed to pay any heed to this. Alone of them, Chapeau did not share in their general amusement.

“Can you believe he ever followed me around?” Lumiere exclaimed in turn, “I almost think I might have imagined his sweetness back then! Did we imagine that he was so affectionate?”

“I once called him a playmate of mine,” Plumette said now, snuggling in to Lumiere, “He is no friend of ours the way he avoids us.”

Adam stumbled back, trying to block all of this, feeling like everything inside him was about to break, to fall apart on hearing what exactly the servants were saying. How horrid to hear such words! And especially from Plumette and Lumiere.

“Why—why are you showing me this?” he demanded the ghost in a strangled voice. “Why do you torture me so with this?”

But the ghost remained silent, putting a finger to unmoving lips. Through the closed window flew the same tiny owl, landing on its shoulder, cocking great yellow eyes up at Adam.

“He would rather study than join us for Christmas, anyhow,” Cogsworth said, “Wouldn’t you agree to it? Chapeau, come now, you must agree?”

Chapeau turned his head to look at him so fast, eyes flashing, that Cogsworth recoiled a little.

“ _No._ ”

The others all fell silent at Chapeau’s answer, watching with stunned faces as he leapt to his feet, hands closed in fists, shoulders tense as he swung around to glare at them.

“No, I find none of this amusing!” he declared, “Do you not hear what you are saying? The things you would not dare say were Mrs Potts still in this room?”

A stunned silence. And then—

“I will _not_ tolerate any more talking of the prince like this, and within my hearing!”

“We’ve done it all the time where you could hear,” Cogsworth protested, “And yet you remained quiet.”

“Not _this_ time, Cogsworth. I tolerated it before, but enough’s enough.” Chapeau sucked in a breath, forcing his shoulders to relax as he looked round at his stunned colleagues, silent anger fuming in his eyes. His exhalation came out as a hiss between his clenched teeth. “I consider myself shocked at what I have heard especially from _you,_ Lumiere!” His mouth moved as though he wanted to tell them more of exactly what he thought of them, but then exhaled a sharp sigh instead. “I’m going to go help Mrs Potts.”

Adam was pretty sure he heard an underlying, unspoken threat of telling Mrs Potts _exactly_ what they had been saying about the prince. And he sorely hoped that was exactly what he would do; from what he had seen, he was sure she would be in agreement with Chapeau.

The other servants’ gazes followed Chapeau as he walked out of the room with an air of deceptive calm.

Adam held his breath, heart hammering, expecting them to start talking terrible things about him again. He suddenly really, really wished he was back in his own present, in his own castle.

“Take me back,” he found himself saying, swinging around to look the ghost and then the owl straight in their eyes. “I want to see no more of this.”

The owl hooted.

“Thank you.”

It hooted again, but nothing else happened but for the servants falling quiet as they looked at each other and then eventually resumed conversation—until the door swung open with great force, and there stood Mrs Potts, looking uncommonly angry, her fingers clenched around the edge of the silver tray.

“Chapeau told me everything.”

“We didn’t mean it,” Plumette began, but fell silent at once on Mrs Potts’ furious glance.

“We are going to _talk._ ”

Mrs Potts strode inside, followed at once by Chapeau, who quietly went to take a seat on the opposite side of the room. But instead of going over to the table to set down the tray, she set it down on the coffee table sitting in front of Chapeau’s chair.

“Help yourself, Chapeau,” she told him, gesturing to the large tray, giving him a quick pat on the shoulder, as if to assure him that whatever she was about to say next did not apply to him.

Despite himself, Adam decided he could stay just this little bit longer, just to hear what Mrs Potts would say. The words he had heard stung, hurt in a place that was deep and terrible, but he wanted to know what Mrs Potts had to say to this. Oh! Had he ever seen her so furious before? Even Cogsworth looked ready to quail under her glare, and was it just Adam, or was she _trembling_ from her own fury?

“How. Dare. You.” Mrs Potts began, her eyes meeting one servant’s then the next with each word. “How can you say such terrible things about our boy?”

“He—he _did_ give back gifts,” Plumette offered up, but her voice was more timid than usual.

“You claim him to be as bad as his father! Do you truly _believe_ this?”

“He does avoid us.”

“Has he hurt you with words or fists?” Mrs Potts demanded, “Has he ever refused you to visit your loved ones for years? Well? What _have_ you to say for yourselves?” She turned her wrath on Plumette and Lumiere. “As for you two, I am disappointed by what Chapeau has told me of your words! The last people on this fair earth I would have expected to say such things!”

“He did slam the door once when you went to check up on him, Chapeau, did he not?” Cogsworth asked.

“And he has demanded us to go away on several occasions,” Plumette added.

“But he has never hit you has he?” Mrs Potts emphasised.

“He has thrown things at us,” Lumiere argued, “Soft things, mind, like a cushion.”

“Which is nothing as terrible as his own father does to him,” Mrs Potts said, voice rising in her fury, “Nowhere _near_ as terrible! You may have said all this without his earshot, but it still is as terrible a betrayal as if you had said it within! I confess myself disappointment in you, and on such a day as today! Lord, if he were to hear what you have said of him, I shouldn’t wonder that he wouldn’t trust us again!”

How ironic it was that though Mrs Potts knew it not, that the prince really was listening to all this. But, on looking at the other servants, even Adam could see that Mrs Potts’ words did have some impact on them, Plumette looking down at her hands, forehead crinkled in some expression he could not quite see. Lumiere appeared uncommonly serious, and Cogsworth’s expression was the closest to neutral, yet Adam could tell nevertheless that Mrs Potts’ words had edged their way into his own thoughts.

“We are only servants,” Cogsworth said at last, even as the scene darkened as though the light of the world itself was darkening, though the candles still flickered, “What can we do? We are helpless.”

“We must leave,” the ghost whispered, his hand on Adam’s arm again,  “You have seen all you need to see.”

And still the scene continued to dim, like a dream that was fading away, and the last thing he saw before all went dark was Mrs Potts turning away at Cogsworth’s words, her silence filling the room.

“We are too far below him for him to care,” Cogsworth said, his words the last that Adam heard before there was nothing but darkness all around.

“Where—where are we?” Adam queried, staring around, at the same time becoming keenly aware of a firm floor beneath his feet, and of a strange sensation of having just passed through a window pane, the curtains billowing on either side.

He jumped as a candle suddenly burst into light; turning, he saw it was just the candle on his desk, flickering like no time had passed at all.

_The ghost!_

Spinning around to look behind him, he saw nothing except for the two glowing eyes of the owl perched on his empty chair. It hooted at him again.

_Tomorrow…_ whispered a disembodied voice--Adam could have sworn it came from the owl with its glowing eyes, _Tomorrow at one, be here for the Ghost of Christmas Present._

The owl hooted once, twice, thrice, and, with a great sweep of its wings, it flew straight through the glass of the closed window, as easily as a ghost.

In the hallway, the clock chimed once.

And outside his window, it was still the thick of night.

Somehow, though Adam had felt he’d been gone for a long time, no time at all had passed.

Not even a second.


	3. Interlude I

Immediately after the encounter with the ghost and his past, Adam went straight to bed. But, instead of falling asleep straight way, he lay awake in the dark, eyes wide open, staring up at the dark ceiling. Flashes of what he had seen passed over the ceiling with its shadows of unlit chandeliers and candelabras. The sky outside glimmered with snow—a high blizzard had gathered that glistened with the borrowed light of muffled stars behind the clouds.

It was all too much information at once for the prince, who just lay there, frowning in the dark, hands behind his head, his thick blanket tucked about his waist. Outside, another owl’s hoot—had some owls taken up roost in the castle towers or attics? There seemed to be at least one of them flying around lately.

_What just happened?_

An altogether understandable reaction for a man who had seen an overwhelming slice or two or three of his past. Not thin slices, as one might finely cut through an orange, but great, thick  chunks cleaved apart as a cook might with a pumpkin for a soup or stew.

His mother had loved Chapeau, and Chapeau had loved her! How had he never known this?

 _They hid it from Father,_ his thoughts answered at once for him, from a place of complete reason and logic. Adam knew all too well that his father would have flown into a rage had he known that the princess was having a romance with a servant.

_Chapeau still misses her._

Then there was the matter of what he had heard the servants saying in their common room, and again that collapsing feeling in his gut, like some hand constricted part of his soul on thought of their words. Bless Mrs Potts, at least she had the bravery and decency to jump to his defence—he was sure he’d never heard her raise her voice in that manner.

But what then of Plumette’s and Lumiere’s words? Oh! To think they would ever had said such things!

Am _I just like my father now?_

Sleep was out of the question, this one nagging thought having hooked claws deep into his brain, forbidding sleep, letting him toss and turn with restlessness.

_Does she still think this way about me?_

Maybe he _was_ like his father after all, if he had been so callous as to return a gift to her—and to Lumiere, he now recalled too. Three juggling balls, given to him on his sixth birthday, then returned when he was nine, convinced he was now “too old” for “childish habits and pursuits”.

_Little wonder they hate me._

The prince shut his eyes, curling on his side, trying to push away these troubling thoughts so he might sleep.

_I never deserved their kindness._

And yet, for some reason he could not fathom, they stayed at the castle nevertheless.

Lumiere’s words, too, haunted him. How he was practically convinced that he’d only imagined that Adam had ever been a kinder, more affectionate boy. One of his oldest friends! To say this! And there, the memories that came rushing back, vivid as anything. How Adam had always followed after him, his “second shadow”, how Lumiere always had sneaked him extra slices of double chocolate cake on a special occasion, the way he had put on performances full of sweeping stories and daring swordfights, and how he had once taught him to juggle, how when Adam was four he let him ride on his shoulders, and how he never failed to be such a bright spot of optimism in the castle even on the dreariest of days, and how he was always ready to offer a hug to anyone who needed it.

And Plumette! Let us not forget the most beautiful lady in the castle! Plumette, who had let a little boy play with her make-up, who had taught him how to dance and not minding if he stepped on her toes, how soft her arms were when he had snuggled up to her for a read when he asked, and how she always had the most soothing voice—second only to his mother’s own—when she sang to him to cheer him up. Oh! He remembered the times when she’d let him chase her through the castle, pretending to be out of breath just so he could catch her. He remembered her letting him play with her hair when it was out, tiny fingers catching in her tight curls, a brush with very soft bristles in his other hand.

And now—

That was all for naught.

They had given up hope for him, and it was his fault. How could he have forsaken them when he knew full well now that they cared— _had_ once cared about him?

And, for the first time that he could remember, he wanted to apologize, to try and make amends, but how? _How?_ How could he do this? How, when he knew they had long given up on him? He’d seen for himself, hadn’t he?

 _It’s too late._ _I no longer remember how to say sorry._

It was hopeless.

When he fell asleep, only a small damp spot on his pillow betrayed any hints of his own deepest regrets.

 

He opened his eyes to a knock at the door. Jerking out of his dreamless slumber, the prince’s eyes flew open to be met by broad daylight, sunlight bouncing off pure white snow, little flakes sticking to the window panes of his room.

_What time is it?_

Another knock, more insistent this time, louder. Was it just his imagination, or did he hear someone suggesting to play a loud trumpet to see if the prince awakens _finally_? Then—an older, gruffer voice telling them not to try it, you fool!

“ _Mon ami!_ ” Adam could hear Lumiere’s dulcet tones loud and clear even beyond the thick door. “Have some fun!”

“Who is it?” the prince shouted, sitting up, only to fall back with a great groan, hands over his face. For a terrible headache had seized his skull, pounding behind his eyeballs. Lack of sleep last night was surely the culprit.

“Cogsworth, Master.”

The door knob turned, the door opening just far enough that Cogsworth could peep through.

“It is past ten, Master.”

“Past ten,” the prince mumbled, rubbing his eyes, then froze. In a sudden alarm, he sat bolt upright, cursing the horrible pain this caused his poor head. _“Past_ ten, Cogsworth?”

The elder man nodded, fiddling with the pocket-watch on the end of a golden chain.

“Indeed it is. We have been waiting for you all morning.” A pause. “Now that you are up, do you desire breakfast brought to you?”

The prince waved a dismissive hand in the door’s direction. “Set it up in the dining room.”

“As you wish.”

 

As soon as he was presentable enough, Adam made his way to the dining room for breakfast, only to nearly run into Plumette who was just coming down the corridor he was traversing. Both stopped short, Plumette putting a hand over her heart in her small start, before offering up a little smile—a polite, apologetic one. Adam’s mind flashed back again to the vision he had seen, courtesy of the ghost of Christmas past. Plumette’s words, the way she had been so convinced he had become just like his father, and how she had deliberately avoided him the more unpleasant he had become. Plumette!

“I would like to pass,” Plumette hinted, her voice raised to get his attention.

Adam shook himself back into the present to see Plumette looking at him in askance. A shot of guilt rushed through him, the likes of which he had not known in a long while.

“I—oh god, I’m sorry—” in his haste to step aside, he stumbled over his own feet, his hand automatically going to the wall to steady himself.

“Everything alright, Master?” Plumette asked.

“Did not sleep well, that’s all,” he said, his headache still pounding in his skull, “Tossing and turning.”

“Feel better soon.”

She made to walk past him, then hesitated, biting her lower lip as she looked back at him. “That’s the first time I heard you say sorry in a long while.”

“I know—” Adam blurted out, “I—I’m—”

His throat threatened to close, his breath hitching, a hand automatically going up to lay over his heart, as if to calm his anxiety, press it back down. No, no, it had nothing to do with anything he had seen—just lack of sleep.  

 _I want to say it, but how?_ How _do I apologise for something long ago? How? What must I say—_

“You are acting peculiar today. Are you sure you’re alright?”

He turned on his heel, facing the direction of the dining room.

“Nothing that would worry you, Plumette. Happy Christmas.”

“As you—what?”

Adam chanced a glance back at Plumette at the question and its accompanying gasp. Her eyes were wide.

“Did you just wish me a Happy Christmas?”

A second ago, the words had tumbled out unheeded and without a second thought, only to return to his immediate memory upon Plumette’s exclamation.

“I—I suppose I did,” Adam mumbled, a little gruff, as he resumed his path toward the dining room, not looking back at Plumette, leaving her to do as she so desired.

 

No sooner had he sat down at the table to eat his breakfast—more like a lunch rather—then the doors opened again, and Mrs Potts walked in, carrying a tea tray with a kettle and empty teacup with a little chip in its rim.

“Good to see you’re up at last,” she remarked, bestowing a smile to him as she set the tray down. “Trouble sleeping?”

Adam shrugged a shoulder as offhand as he could. “You might say that. Didn’t get to sleep until after one.”

Well, it wasn’t a lie. And, alas, he remembered at that second too, that the same would be true of tonight and the next night. Ah, what would the ghost tonight show him? He prayed it would not be so bad as what he had seen the other night.

Mrs Potts folded her hands, resting them on top of an empty chair tucked under the table.

“If you need anything to help you sleep, just ask.”

_Just ask._

Adam’s fork slipped from between his fingers, clattering off the plate and to the floor. At once, he reached down to pick it up as Mrs Potts reached her hand out to him.

“I’ll get a clean one from the kitchen for you.”

_Just ask._

He handed it over to Mrs Potts, who promptly bustled away to the kitchen to get him a clean fork.

_Just ask._

Why was it just now that he realised the deeper meaning of those two simple words? Not just the superficial—“just ask if you want seconds”—said with professional politeness, but the deeper compassion those two words could hold in an empathetic conversation. He remembered again how Mrs Potts had railed against the other servants when they had spoken so ill of him, and there was that feeling again, one that swelled in him, somewhere in his chest under his collarbone.

When Mrs Potts reappeared again, fork in hand, a rousing chorus of a Christmas carol began in the kitchen behind her, only to be muffled when the housekeeper shut the door. He took the clean fork from her.

“Do you need anything else?”

Anything else? _Anything else_? Just ask.

_Just ask._

“You’re out of sorts today, Adam.”

“It’s just lack of sleep.”

Adam watched as Mrs Potts scraped back a chair and plopped herself down in it, smoothing out her skirts. From her pursed lips and the way she maintained steady eye contact, Adam knew that she wasn’t fooled once by his excuse. He shouldn’t have been surprised—and he wasn’t—as, out of all the servants, she was the one who knew him best since he had been but a baby. Any of the other servants, whether Plumette, Lumiere, or even Chapeau, might have accepted this excuse and moved on, but not Mrs Potts.

And, he found to his bewilderment, where once this might have annoyed, perhaps even frustrated him, now, after what he had seen, it comforted him. At least he now understood there was at least one person in this entire castle who might still care enough to listen to him.

“It’s not lack of sleep,” Mrs Potts said, clasping her hands together on the table, leaning forward, “There’s something on your mind.”

The prince put down his fork, stalling for time as he picked up the kettle to pour some tea into his cup, steam pouring up toward the ceiling, infusing the room with a homely aroma. His thoughts, stirring themselves into a stew of half-formed excuses and barely cooked reasons, finally came up with one, a dredge of something at least. Her lamentation to Cogsworth in one of the ghost memories came sailing back into the forefront of his thoughts. But how to _begin_? He could only try—but oh Lord, did it have to be so confoundingly impossible to ask such a simple question?

“The village,” the prince began, taking a tiny pair of tongs and plopping a sugar cube into his tea, “When were you last there?”

“Last year,” Mrs Potts said without missing a beat, “Why?”

“When last year?”

“Christmas Day, as always—you know this as well as I do.”

_But she’d said different, hadn’t she?_

“Has it always been that way? That it’s _only_ on Christmas Day?”

“Adam, what’s going on?”

Adam picked up the teacup and took a long sip from it, feeling its soothing taste melt down his throat, tempering his headache a little. At least it offered him some delay in answering Mrs Potts.

“But _has_ it?” Adam asked, putting his teacup back on its saucer. He didn’t pick up his fork, simply laying his hands back in his lap.

“Since the Princess had passed away,” Mrs Potts revealed as she leaned over to rearrange the sugar bowl and small milk jug.

_Oh. That’s…that was so long ago._

The very thought of those days so long ago brought back even more memories from his childhood. He remembered how Mrs Potts had always went away at Christmas for at least a week or so, always past the New Year. Sometimes throughout the year, she had went to her village a few days at a time. Of course he’d always missed her when she went away for those stretches of time, which, to a tiny boy, seemed like months rather than the days that they actually were. He remembered clearly how excited he had been on her return to the castle, every time. Once he had spotted her returning down the garden’s paths, he’d drop everything and pelt hell-mell down the paths, a wide, untethered grin on his face, his little legs pumping as hard as they could, his arms flung wide to grab her in a big hug. Without fail, Mrs Potts would crouch to his level, putting down all her bags she had taken with her, and open her arms out to give him the biggest hug of his life in return. She’d always had the best cuddles, soft arms wrapping him close to her chest, planting a little kiss or two on his head.

But he could not recall having ever met Mrs Potts’ husband.

“Have I met him before?”

“Met whom?”

“Your husband.”

“Jean?” Mrs Potts sat back, a small smile on her face, and Adam could see for the first time how she missed him, her hand coming up to lay itself over her bosom as she glanced away with wistfulness. “A couple of times, but you were very, very young. Probably too young to remember at all. Why do you ask?”

“Is—is he a good man?”

“Of course—I wouldn’t settle for anyone less than a good man who loves his son as much as I do. Chip misses him _so_ much.”

Adam, despite himself, didn’t find it too hard to believe Mrs Potts on this; she would never stay with a man who hurt her, let alone her child, he was quite certain on this. He knew full well it was different for royalty, such as his own mother had been, than it was for a “simple” servant, though Mrs Potts was anything but simple. She, like the other servants, had a choice, and royalty…not so much.

Floundering around for something else to say, though the silence wasn’t so much awkward as it was, in a word or two, not apprehensive, Adam quickly snatched up the next thought to come into his brain.

“Chip has no-one his age here,” Prince Adam observed, picking up his fork again, digging into some scrambled eggs, “does it get lonely for him?”

Mrs Potts tilted her head in consideration of her words. “Yes and no. He has friends here, and he has me.”

“I wager he’s glad to get away from me when he can,” Adam said, trying not to let bitterness creep into his voice, “I’m the least pleasant man alive.”

Mrs Potts’ answer is quick, swift. “No you’re not.”

Again, Plumette’s words rang through his head. _“He has become so much like his father!”_

“Do you have proof? How do I know I’m no better than my father?”

“If you were anything like your father, I wouldn’t allow Chip anywhere near you.”

Adam snapped his head up to stare at her, but didn’t speak. She nodded a little as if to confirm her words’ sincerity.

“I trust you around Chip.”

With that, Mrs Potts pushed her chair back, starting to stand up to presumably return to her duties in the castle or to look for Chip. Instead, she pressed her hands on the table top, looking keenly at Adam.

“Has someone been telling you this?” she asked, eyes never leaving his face, as though to search for any hint of a lie.

“I—” how could he put it? “I just overhear…things.”

“Well!” Mrs Potts straightened up, planting her hands on her hips, every part of her posture declaring she meant to get to the heart of this matter. “Who have you heard saying this?”

“I don’t know,” Adam said hastily, “Just overheard passing by a closed door.”

“Did you recognise the voice?”

“No. No, the voices were too muffled.”

Mrs Potts exhaled sharp through her nose, her hands moving from her hips down back to her sides. But displeasure still remained in her lined forehead.

“I will not stand for _anyone_ saying you are like your father, Prince Adam. Believe me, I would have words for them if I knew who they were.”

With that, she bade him a good morning and returned to her work down in the kitchen. It took Adam a minute to realise he had clean forgotten to tell her he intended to lengthen the days she spent in the village with her husband. But by the time the thought had returned, she had already long gone, and it could be hours before she would be free enough for him to talk with her of it.

For now, Adam concentrated on nursing his throbbing headache and on returning over and over the conversation he just had with Mrs Potts.

_When did we last have a conversation this long?_

He knew. Oh, his heart sank to think how long it had been since he had exchanged a conversation even _half_ as long as the one they just had! His poor mother had still been alive at the time, and they had sat at this same table, Mrs Potts beside him as he told her excitedly of the new books he had found by his bedside that same morning. How she had smiled so generously at him as he babbled on about the new stories he’d discovered within those pages, and how her arm had come around his shoulders in a warm embrace as he sat next to her, reading aloud a favourite new passage.

Oh, to think how just one simple—or perhaps not so simple—conversation could bring back so many bittersweet memories! Bittersweet and strange, indeed.  

 

At least he had the remainder of the day to distract himself with attending to other princely duties, including all the taxes he still had to dole out to his various towns and villages. His father had assured him that every prince taxed his people as much as they could, for how else was a palace able to then indulge in procuring everything they ever wanted and desired? It didn’t matter if it affected anyone down in the village—if they couldn’t see whatever terrible things went on down there, then it didn’t matter did it? No! What was more important was being able to afford lavish parties with invitees from all corners of Europe from Norway to Italy, gifts of the most premium quality, and visitations from the finest performers in Italy and France. If it hurt a few people down in some tiny village, did it really matter? If they couldn’t see it, then it didn’t matter that much.

And so, the prince, convinced by his father that all was morally right with the heavy taxes on the poor people of the villages and towns they ruled over, continued to do so. He had not heard anything in his castle of its effects, nor heard tell of any complaints and grumblings among the populaces, so, in this, he was assured that it wasn’t _that_ bad. He’d been taught this was all normal, and thought nothing much more of the amount he taxed his people.

 

Hours passed; the servants’ excitement and fervour over Christmas’ coming, now but forty-eight hours away, seemed to be even more intense than ever. Lumiere and Plumette’s dancing finally resulted in them knocking down a box full of fragile Christmas ornaments from a side table, glass and porcelain shattering on the floor. Chip, in his well-intended desire to help clean up the mess, ended up with a couple of cuts from touching the shards; fortunately, Plumette whisked him away from the scene in time down to the kitchens to nurse his hands and find his mother. Chapeau, in his own quiet manner, procured a brush and a bucket to sweep the broken ornaments into, with the help of Lumiere and another maid who had been there at the time.

 

Before Adam knew it, less than five hours remained before one in the morning. When earlier in the day, it had seemed so far away, nothing but a dot of light on the horizon of time, now it loomed bright and enormous. And there was nothing he could do to halt the passage of time, so that he might delay the visitation of the ghost of Christmas present.

 

Ten at night. The castle was now quieter, most of the servants either in bed or getting ready for it. Chip had long ago been tucked into bed, Chapeau was playing his violin somewhere—a familiar tune, once so dear to Adam’s heart—, Lumiere and Plumette were giggling and stealing kisses in the corridors, and somewhere, a prince paced back and forth, back and forth, across the perimeters of his study’s floor.

 

Eleven. Mrs Potts was sound asleep, Chapeau’s violin was now silent, tucked away to be played at another hour, and still Lumiere and Plumette were awake. Cogsworth had made his annoyance known, only for Lumiere to quip, “Who has time for sleep when one is in love, old friend?” With a grumble, Cogsworth went a-bed, his cane tapping out a precise rhythm, like a Chronomètre of Loulié’s pendulum keeping beat to music. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap—

Was that an owl at the window, tapping away at the wood? Or was that the tap-tap of snow melting and dripping off the turret roofs to plop down on a balcony or the snowy ground far below? Lumiere broke out into song somewhere nearby, Plumette shushing him sharply, but when the prince sneaked a peek out of his door to see where they were, there was nothing. Nothing but for candles flickering on the walls, the eyes of lavishly painted portraits unnaturally dark and hooded in this hour of night. White hands folded into rich dresses fluttered as if in some small greeting at the periphery of his vision. But when he looked straight at them, they were still.

And still Plumette and Lumiere sung with soft, cooing voices, and yet the prince could not find them.

 

Twelve. The hour was near. Plumette and Lumiere had fallen silent—Adam presumed they’d finally gone back to bed. The castle was so silent he could hear the breathing of people who slumbered here—no, that was his own breathing, slow, regular. He flinched as a loud scratch dragged across his window pane, only to see it was a small twig that had somehow flew smack into the glass. The twig twitched in the high wind, until it was pulled away, leaving nothing but whirling snow, bright as fireflies, pulsing like a heartbeat against the glass. In the absence of a lit fireplace and an extra woollen cloak, winter reached out and gripped his hands, squeezing them until his fingers felt uncomfortably stiff from the frigid environs.

 

Twelve forty-five. The prince fidgeted, paced, pressed hands to the sides of his head, clutching at his scalp, breathing irregular for the apprehension. Not long and he would see the appearance of the ghost of Christmas present. He pondered and pondered—what would it look like? Would it look like him as a child with no shadow and white hair? Would it look completely different?

 

Twelve fifty. An owl hooted, flew back and forth past his window, as if waiting, waiting, waiting for the hour to strike. He could hear a pendulum swinging back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He imagined that sound growing louder and louder until he almost fancied _he_ was the pendulum itself, swaying to the inexhaustible passage of time. The numbers were indistinguishable in the night, yet he knew it was almost one.

 

Twelve fifty-five. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine.

 

One.


	4. Stave III: The Ghost of Christmas Present

The clock had struck the hour.

Adam waited, holding his breath in anticipation. The ghost would come any second now. He would turn around and see another come to greet him, to show him some other terrible montage of visions.

A minute passed. Another. And another.

Five minutes passed, and still the room remained dark and silent, with no sign of magical beings.

The room stayed blanketed in night, except for the trickle of amber light undulating under the door. The light slipped into the room like a stream winding its blind way to the ocean. Adam watched as it streamed up over the door, curled around the knob like ethereal fingers.

_Wait. That is not how light behaves._

Hardly breathing, Adam watched as the golden light began to pour through the keyhole and the other gaps between door and doorframe, like some holy visage come to visit him. He stared as it bled over the walls, swimming over the paintings like fish created out of particles of light. Waves of gold fluttered up over the ceiling, twirling and leaping like dancers around him. Adam couldn’t help but stare as the strange illumination dived down from the ceiling and curled around him like he was a butterfly in a golden cocoon. It wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling, this—rather, it felt like the warm embrace of a loved one, and when was the last time he ever had _that_? If this is what it was like to be wrapped in a nurturing, comforting hug by a warm, crackling fireplace, then he didn’t mind it so much. If _this_ was the ghost, it was oddly comforting.

The prince gently swept a hand through the sheet of light before him, watching as particles spun and danced in response to his fingers’ carving a path through them. He trailed his fingers upward, and at once an entire galaxy streamed up to the ceiling, flowing over it like the Milky Way on a warm summer’s night. The prince turned around on the spot, slowly, in wonder, at the galaxy of light twinkling all around him. Streams of light roped over the curtains and desk, cascading to the floor. Watching these streams, the prince fancied them not dissimilar to channels criss-crossing a continent’s face, searching for the great ocean, blue and fathomless.  

“Are you the ghost?” he whispered, in awe despite himself. “The ghost of Christmas present?”

No response, the light choosing instead to entwine around his outstretched arm like the hands of a lover.

_Is this part of the ghost’s presence? Its arrival?_

“Speak to me!” he urged whatever this apparition was, but silence answered him. “Just give me the dignity of an answer.”

Instead, this curious, seemingly sentient light curled around his hands, arms, shoulders, and shrouded his chest and torso like some deity’s golden armour. A strange sensation of being lifted from the ground jerked his attention down to his feet, only to find them firmly on the floor. Despite this, the peculiar feeling of floating still persisted.

“Where are you, ghost?” he asked in quiet awe,  staring at the rings of gold now spiralling down his wrists, over his hands, down to his very fingertips.

“ _Come_ , _come!_ ”

“Come where?”

“Come, come! Open the door!”

The streams merged into a river channelling under the door and through the keyhole. His body was tugged forward, some invisible force pulling on his arms and pushing against his back.

“There is no time like the present!” the—ghost? Light?—urged him, like a child impatient to go play.

The prince raised his hand and turned the handle, opening it out onto the hallway with its darkened portraits and shortening, wax-laden candles.

The light tugged on him again, that same forceful feeling like a hand pushing against his back, urging him to keep going.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked.

Still no response. Understanding he wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of this curiosity, he decided to just let the light guide him wherever it desired him to go.

Adam started as a candelabra suddenly burst into flame. Its flames flared ceiling-ward, dangerously close to setting alight a portrait hanging near it. Hurrying over, he grabbed it, the base warm against his palm.

As he carried it with him, the candelabra’s flames flickered as if with a life of their own. If he looked at it sidelong, he fancied the two golden crescents flickered back and forth like two eyes. But he knew this was only a part of the strange behaviour of things resting in the dark.

It wasn’t long before he found himself standing in front of the main doors leading into the dining room. Just as he laid his hand on the knob, jovial music began playing on the other side of the doors.

_I thought everyone was asleep!_

The light flitted around him like little swallows in the spring, as though energised by the melody from within the dining room. It buzzed around him, an indistinct humming along with the tune, swishing and twirling over the doors.

_I suppose I’m about to find out who’s in there._

But when he pulled the doors open, he found not a single musician, and yet, there was still music and merrymaking, as though an entire invisible orchestra sat inside. But, perhaps just as breath-taking as the invisible orchestra, was the grand feast laid out on the tables.

His jaw dropped open at the sight of the menagerie of cheese platters, finger foods, bowls of succulent puddings, cakes with a dozen tiers, plates of curious grey stuff, mouth-watering cheese soufflé, and everything one could imagine! The finest gold-rimmed wine and champagne glasses sat side by side next to the most gorgeous plates he had seen in his lifetime. Fresh napkins made of the finest linen were twisted in neat fashion atop the smallest plates and fine silver cutlery was laid in orderly fashion on the table.

Moonlight filtered through the high windows, filling the room with magnificent celestial light. Mistletoe hung in thick bundles from lit chandeliers high above him. Golden candelabras marched down the centre of the table, splitting it in two. Each and every one of their candles were lit, burning as bright as the chandeliers above.

The streaming light wafted around the room, melting into the candle light and shimmering against the ceiling and floor. It rained down the walls, the painted curtains appearing to billow and bloom despite their painted nature.

His eyes drifted to the chair at the end of the table, and his breath caught in his chest. For, sitting there, grand as anything, was the ghost. This ghost, much to Adam’s unsettlement, looked so much like him—only a little older—gazing at him with joyful blue eyes, his face framed by shoulder-length blonde hair.

“Ah! You have arrived at last!” exalted the ghost, standing up from the chair, two open, genial hands stretched out to Adam. “Come sit down! Come, come, let us talk!”

“You’re the Ghost of Christmas Present?”

“Why do you think I’m here? Take a seat!” The ghost pointed at a platter near the middle of the table, “Have you tried the grey stuff? It’s delicious!”  

But Adam couldn’t tear his eyes away from the ghost’s face that looked so much like his, with hints of his mother’s features. He appeared like a man in the prime of his life—younger than Lumiere in his mid-thirties, but older than Adam’s twenty-year-old self.

“You’ll wake the whole castle with that music!”

“Nonsense, only you and I can hear it. But I can make it stop if it irritates you.”

“No, no, I don’t mind it. I was merely convinced it would wake the castle.”

“It won’t,” the ghost assured as he stood up, his hands sweeping over the feast, “Ah look, my favourite pudding, _en flambé!_ ”

Adam jumped as a pudding spontaneously combusted, letting loose an aromatic medley of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger into the air.

The ghost now paced the table’s length, pointing out every last delicacy present on the table. He was resplendent in a sky-blue, silken coat, his feet clad in elegant, white dancing shoes with blue bows on them. When he stopped before Adam, the prince noticed his eyes were the same shade as his mother’s had been, and that his nose was not as long as his own, inherited from his father.

“Adam! I take it you are ready?” the ghost asked.

“Ready?”

The ghost extended a genial hand. “For me to show you what I need you to see.”

His generous smile exuded so much affection that Adam found himself feeling that much lighter in turn.

“It will not be for long,” promised the ghost, “But let me lead you where I may, at the very least. Will you take my hand?”

Adam stared at the hand, which looked so much like his mother’s soft, nurturing hand. He cast his glance up to the ghost’s face with its large eyes and jaw tapering to a soft, feminine chin.

“I won’t hurt you,” reassured the ghost, “Please come along?”

“Where are we going?” Adam demanded.

A cloud of solemnity occluded the sunny expression, the light of his smile fading to a hint of its former glory.

“We will visit various towns and villages under your rule,” said the ghost, “So that you might see for yourself how they fare under your care.”

“I am sure they fare well, ghost, I have not heard complaints.”

“ _You_ have not.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Come with me and you will see.” The ghost stretched out his other arm, bidding over Adam’s head with his fingers, and a second later, an owl soared onto his forearm, sidling on up to the ghost’s broad shoulder. “Perhaps then you will learn, as you have last night when you saw your past!”

_What is there to learn in the present? Have I not learned enough?_

“Take my hand,” the ghost offered again, stretching out an arm to Adam, “And we will find ourselves in a village in an instant.”

_What have I to lose? Nothing._

Taking a deep breath, trusting this ghost even when he rather wished he didn’t, Adam put his own hand in the spectre’s. Warm fingers curled over his, and in one blink, the dining room had vanished  from view, leaving them standing together on a snowy pathway in the middle of a village. Above them, the sky was slate grey, snow falling from the clouds to kiss of their hair. A few feet away, at the side of the road, a cart lay on its side against a low stone wall, its wheel damp from days of lying abandoned in the snow.

Shifting his attention away from the cart, he saw houses and little shops nested up against each other, though few of them appeared to be open. Nevertheless, he spotted a baker prepping a tray full of rolls, and a man who seemed to be a farmer chasing away his chickens while carrying a basket. A hoot drew his attention back to the ghost; the owl had taken flight, flying off into the morning snow.

“Where are we?”

“Ah, we are in Villeneuve! Look! There is the chapel! Shh! Do you hear the bells?”

No sooner had the words left the ghost’s mouth, then came a pure peal from a distant clock tower. Adam counted nine chimes.

“What day is it?”

“Christmas Day. Come with me.”

The ghost strode up ahead— _crunch crunch crunch_ —through the ankle-deep snow, though his stockings did not dampen nor his bows become sodden with melt. Adam’s feet too sunk into the snow as he followed the ghost, but frost did not sink sharp teeth through his shoes and socks. He rubbed his hands together with vigour, but this was more out of instinct, rather than feeling anything of the chill.

Eventually, they stopped in front of the doors leading into a modest chapel tucked away in a quiet corner of Villeneuve. Adam didn’t know what it was about the chapel, but looking at its sturdy old doors and the comforting old bricks and the dark, yet somehow welcoming, windows, he felt a sense of comfort.

“Shh, listen at the door! Do you hear that?”

Adam edged closer to the old chapel door, leaning his ear to the wood.

“They’re—singing?”

“A family. A father, mother, and their two little children.”

Adam scrunched his forehead a little in his effort to listen keenly to the voices raised in joyous celebration of Christmas. The father’s soared above the mother’s, and he could just hear a child’s voice also raised in song. No matter how hard he strained, he could not hear more than the one child’s high tones singing along with their parents.

Straightening up, he glanced back at the ghost and was surprised to see him looking so grim.

“Poor girl,” the ghost whispered, shaking his head. “Let us go inside.”

“They cannot see us?”

“As before, no, no-one is able to see or hear us.”

The ghost pressed a hand against the door, and it swung open with a little squeak, revealing a modest room with rows of pews, of which only one of them was occupied. But in a small while, parishioners and Christmas revellers would tumble into the church in a cloud of frosted breath, rubbing chapped red hands together.

Adam let the ghost lead him to the modest family in their patched clothing. On closer approach, he could see the man—the father, he presumed—clinging on to a little child—perhaps no older than six or seven—to his chest. The father’s hand cradled the back of her head, stroking her tresses tenderly. It was this, the father clinging on to his little sick girl, that found Adam stricken with some unnameable emotion—surprise? Sadness? Longing? Maybe a hint of jealousy, that the girl had such a good father?

_How did I never know good fathers existed in this world?_

The girl’s other hand, stretched out, clung to the woman’s hand, her face a pale, wan shadow framed by tousled brunette hair. She had the look of one who had lost a lot of weight, and instead of being plump, rosy and healthy, the poor girl looked thin as anything.

Not even Adam’s heart was too cold to be unmoved by such a pitiable sight.

“Tell me she will be well again,” Adam pleaded in a whisper to the ghost, “Will she?” His eyes wandered down to an open book lying next to the mother and child on the pew. He recited aloud the words he saw, birds flitting above them in simple, yet elegant, illustrations. “ _The blue bird that flies over the dark wood…_ ”

“Let us move on,” his ghostly compatriot insisted, turning on his heel.

“You did not answer me before.”

“We will talk of this at a later time. Come now, let us walk together.”

Sensing the ghost meant to speak no more about the girl for now, Adam decided to let it go.

The ghost led on, Adam following him to a small door at the back of the room. When the ghost opened the door, Adam could see the tiny backroom was a dim little place, with knick knacks leaning against the walls. Above a weary old cross, winter’s light streamed through the windows, one of which had a large, jagged hole in it like a ball had been thrown through it in some reckless sport.  

But the one thing that really got his attention was the set of books standing on a table. There weren’t many there, not more than a dozen or so, but they were books!

“Books!” Adam exclaimed, immediately going at once to the shelf, perusing the titles offered there, only to recoil when he saw the only Shakespeare play the chapel had to offer the village was _Romeo and Juliet_.

“What offends you so?” the ghost queried.

“Out of all of Shakespeare’s plays, this chapel only has _Romeo and Juliet_?”

“How can you be so offended by such a trivial thing when you have just seen the poor girl in the pews?”

After fixing him with a significant and chastening look, the ghost started to move toward the door that opened to the outside. But Adam stayed back a moment longer, lingering at the shelf of books. It really _was_ a pitiable collection, the titles rubbed and worn, pages damp from raindrops that leaked through the roof from time to time, and Adam couldn’t imagine books ever looking so miserable, but these certainly looked to be so.

_This chapel needs more books._

Walking outside, he found the ghost waiting for him, and again they moved on through the village, stopping to listen to a child’s choir, their hands wrapped in worn muffs, their clothes patched with frays here and there. Despite their tattered appearance and holey shoes, the choir was cheerful as could be. The singers’ breaths came out in clouds of melody and frost, their hands chapped with the cold as they held onto their little blue song books.

A curious gaggle of people had gathered to listen to this rosy-cheeked choir. One woman had tied about her neck a small shelf of rolls of ribbons in several pastel colours. Another man balanced a tray of rolls, and Adam was pretty sure he could sense that mouthwatering smell of freshly baked bread.  

“They sing well, don’t they? Look, they are poor with shirts on their back that do naught to keep out the chill, but they shine with hope!”

Ghost and man listened to the choir until the end of their song, after which the children moved on and the modest, yet riveted, audience dispersed. Adam realised his face was hurting not from the cold but from smiling so much on having seen this charming scene.

“Ah! The sound of music is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? It has even drawn a smile from you!” the ghost marvelled, “You look a lot friendlier with that smile, you know.”

“No I don’t,” Adam countered, the smile fading quickly, remembering his father’s words.

_“A prince who smiles too much is a simple fool!”_

“Hm. Rather a dashing, debonair smile you had there.”

They moved on a little more down the snow-laden road, stopping in their tracks on overhearing a conversation between two men who had stopped to have a chat. One wore a wide-brimmed hat--an oddly summery thing to wear in winter--greying curls escaping from under it. The other man, significantly younger than his friend, wore a fraying brown coat and a pair of trousers that looked in dire need of replacement.

“Those poor choir boys!” the man in the brown coat lamented to his companion, “All without mittens and warm coats, singing out in this cold! And you know who we can blame for this?”

“Who?” asked his companion mildly.

“The very prince who, through his greed, taxes so heavily that my poor neighbour cannot afford the cheapest doctor for his daughter! A pox on him!” the man spat on the ground. “I hope this Christmas is his last!”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?”

A snort. “Not _that_ extreme when you consider how many lives he’s devastating.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t know.”

“He doesn’t _care_. I pray his reign is a short one.”

“He is still young. Young people can change.”

“I don’t know why your wife still works for him, even after all this time!”

“She has told me much about him over the years,” the older man said, adjusting his hat, “He used to be good, Beatrice tells me, before his mother died. I believe her.”

The younger man laughed. “She fools herself, your wife. He was clearly cruel from the day he was born.”

“I trust my Beatrice.”

“Why is she so sentimental over a greedy prince who clearly doesn't care for his own people anymore?”

“She believes there’s some good in him still.”

The younger man shook his head in an air of pity. “Because she’s a soft old simpleton. Getting soft in her head with her age, I’m afraid.”

Great indignation crossed the older man’s face. For a few seconds, he appeared to be in some internal debate with himself, before he straightened up with a little nod of farewell.

“Merry Christmas to you too, sir,” said he with forced warmth, and, without another word, continued onward to his destination.

A few moments passed before Adam realised he was gaping, shaken by this brief but intense conversation.

_Has it really gotten so bad?_

Closing his mouth, he shifted his attentions back to the ghost, who looked entirely unsurprised by this.

“An interesting conversation,” the ghost said with too much mildness for Adam’s comfort, “Well then! Let us carry on to another town.”

The ghost raised his arm and snapped his fingers once, and the scene blurred, Villeneuve shifting away as they found themselves in a new village, near a small house with a door that did not quite shut properly. A window next to Adam was flung open to let in fresh air. Tinkering notes, soft and poignant, drifted through the window, each note floating like snowflakes around him. He closed his eyes to the sound, remembering how Plumette had once given him a music box so long ago and—

Oh wretched boy he had been, he’d given it back to Plumette on his father’s order that no prince should have “toys” around. Poor Plumette! He opened his eyes quickly, blinking into the bright snow to try and chase away the image of her devastated expression that day.

_I’m sorry, Plumette…_

“Do you know who lives in there?” Adam asked the ghost, trying to distract his thoughts back to the present.

“A poor artist and his daughter—poor dear lost her mother a long time ago.”

Adam’s heart squeezed at that.

“Her father never quite overcame his grief for her, you know.”

_I understand._

The ghost’s gaze drifted down the door, and then to the open window. “They shall move on soon, for trade is hard to come by anywhere here.”

“In France?”

“Anywhere where your influence reaches. Come along, then, let us walk.”

As they walked deeper into the heart of this new village, Adam spotted houses with long-neglected chimneys looking dangerously close to crumbling. A house had a window with no glass, it being instead replaced by a mat to keep out the cold as best as possible. Adam ducked his head as he passed under a shop sign hanging only by just one of its chains, the other swinging idly in the air. Despite its rather sad state, a Christmas tree decked with all manner of ornamentations twinkled from one of the darkened windows, a site sure to charm any child passing by.

But when he rounded the corner of the street, following the ghost, he recoiled in horror. For, lining the little alleyway were dozens of homeless people. An old man lay on a rug, his eyes open—Adam wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead, and he really didn’t want to know—his meagre belongings clutched under an arm. Farther down, a man yelled at an old crone to leave a rather buxom-looking “Madeline” alone. Walking even farther down, Adam stopped short when he saw a woman cradling a baby.

“That baby was born less than six months ago. He won’t make the winter.”

 “Why?”

“The mother is too poor, even for a simple shelter at a lodging. Her lover abandoned her in autumn for another woman, but she still dreams he’ll return. She still doesn’t give up on hope.”

“Why?”

“It is the nature of Christmas. Look, she is not entirely alone without friends.”

Indeed, another woman had huddled up to the new mother, wrapping her arms around her in a hug. The mother leaned her head on her friend’s, giving her a little kiss of gratefulness.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” murmured the mother, “I’m sorry I have nothing to give—”

“No gift is greater than that of friendship and affection.”

The ghost and prince walked on, until they reached a door opening into an old building, from which inside they could hear children clamouring and cheering about Christmas.

“Orphanage,” whispered the ghost, “And yet Christmas makes the boys merry.”

“Are there no girls?”

“Girls are considered of no importance, and are turned away at the door.”

Adam could imagine his father being more than happy at that prospect, but it left him feeling sick to his stomach. Didn’t girls deserve warmth and shelter as much as boys did? His father would have sneered at him, called him “soft” for suggesting that.

“This orphanage will close by New Year anyway,” the ghost said, “The taxes are too high to afford anymore.”

Adam froze.

“T-taxes?”

The ghost leaned against the wall of the orphanage, fixing him with a grave expression. Gone was the dazzling, sincere smile, though his eyes remained compassionate.

“Remember that girl we saw before?”

Adam nodded, not daring to speak.

“She will be long dead by next Christmas, as long as they are unable to afford a doctor thanks to high taxes.”

Adam reeled, horrified. “No!”

Silence, the clear blue eyes growing even more sorrowful than before.

“No, tell me it’s not true.”

“And the orphanage will close, and few boys will be lucky to see next Christmas, let alone manhood.”

Adam stared up at the dark window, still hearing those joyous boys trying to outdo each other in imagining the best feast ever. No doubt they had made tight friendships over the months—even years—they’d known each other. They would have become their own family, tighter in some ways than even those tied by blood. Now those joyful shouts and whoops inside only saddened, not made buoyant, his heart, knowing that by New Year’s Day, they would all find themselves thrown to the streets without a shelter to call home. Tiny boys of only four or five years old— _Chip’s age_ —struggling against the harsh wintry nights, trying to sleep in the damp streets with a blanket so useless they might well not have bothered to use it at all. Older boys might fare better, take younger ones under their wings, but who knew how long they could protect them? Nature didn’t care who it took when the harsh blizzards and rainstorms came to ravage the streets of France.

And it didn’t care if they were a baby less than six months old, clutched in his mother’s arms, trying valiantly to save him from death’s skeletal hands.

“Shall I show you more?” the ghost asked. “I will depart if you so wish me to.”

Adam’s hands began to shake, and he curled them into fists to try and stop the trembling. It wasn’t that he was afraid that the ghost would belittle him—no, this ghost was too kind, too compassionate for that—but that if he allowed them to shake more, then his whole body might be a-tremble, and soon he would not be able to stand under the weight of his own guilt and horror.

“Is there more you wish to show me?” Adam asked, and with the question died his last ounce of bravery in him. “Then do so, before I quail completely.”

“I gather you are gravely upset for what you have witnessed,” the ghost said, “But I will show you more, so that you might see how hope is still alight on Christmas Day despite poor conditions.”

With that, the ghost again snapped his fingers and Adam found they were in a small town dominated by a church. Looking up at the church’s clock, Adam was surprised to see it was already midday, when most church services had concluded. Already, people were filtering out, chatting, singing, and laughing as they clung on to each other with affection. Adam spotted one family with several children lay out a picnic blanket on a bench, unloading their old bread and jam. He could hear them quip about how this was, for them, the equivalent of a grand Christmas feast at the palace, and the family roared with laughter at the joke.

The ghost bid Adam to follow, and he found himself moving swiftly past people walking arm in arm or holding a small child’s hand as they strolled to have a grand old time in the snow or meet up with friends for a Christmas lunch. Adam spotted a young couple holding onto their little girl’s hands as she swung between them, her parents’ smiles warm with adoration and love. A woman, hand in hand with her companion, carried a steaming pudding, and Adam’s stomach rumbled to see it. How delicious it looked, copious steam rising up to kiss the sky with the scents of a Christmas dessert.

The scene blurred and they found themselves in a different place, out in a vast field where children screamed in untethered happiness whilst they frolicked in the snow. A boy started laughing in the middle of making a snow angel when his dog interrupted the moment by running over to lick his face. The poor dog looked mangy and sick, but still appeared as happy as ever, even despite his evident poorness of health. The boy certainly didn’t seem to mind at all, sitting up to hug his dog about the neck, patting him on the back.

It was this and many more scenes of Christmas happiness in the face of adversity that Adam found himself witness to. A little girl getting a simple cloth doll—one button eye missing, clearly already well-loved—and falling in love with it at once, holding it close to her chest as she cuddled her sister who’d gifted it to her. A man helping a little boy to read, even when the poor child looked close to tears in frustration, brightening up only when he was reminded it was Christmas Day. And over there in some private corner of a public garden, a Christmas Day wedding between two lovers in their elder years. He saw a young man proposing to a beautiful woman, so, _so_ apologetic that he had not the money for even a simple ring—but his new fiancée didn’t care. All she cared was that they loved each other, and he had just given her the best Christmas of her life. Such wonderful things to see! Twin girls screaming in excitement when their parents unveiled a new pile of hand-crafted toys made just for them out of old scraps of material. An old man weeping when a boy picked up his cane when he dropped it, before running off with a “Merry Christmas, good sir!” A homeless woman playing on an old flute, much merriment in her flying fingers. A passing mother and daughter paused to listen, the girl singing along in a soft, shy voice, charming the homeless lady.

And the more the ghost and Adam flew through these fleeting montages of merriment despite impoverishment, the later the hour grew until the evening star glowed bright on the horizon. He saw it winking out of the late, partially cloudy sunset just as they arrived on an empty street back in Villeneuve. To his alarm, he saw the ghost that had accompanied him through all this had become stooped as if with great age.

“You have seen how Christmas touches us all, even in great hardship,” the ghost said, reaching a hand back to massage his lower back, as if he had an ache in that one spot. “My time, alas, reaches an end.”

“What?” Adam half-whispered.

_Don’t go, please._

“I hope you will learn from this experience, Prince Adam,” the ghost swept a gnarled hand out at the empty streets, “Perhaps you might undo what’s been done and bring back the light.”

He stared at this ghost with his charming smile, his warm personality, and soft features that reminded him so much of his dear mother.

“Can’t you stay a while longer?” Adam pleaded, a tug at his heart, “Don’t go away yet.”

The spirit reached a hand out to Adam’s shoulder, and the prince wasn’t sure if he imagined the warmth soaking through his nightshirt. His hand was so warm, it was like he had taken a drop of summer sun and held it in his palm, letting it soak into Adam’s shoulder.

“I’m afraid it’s my turn to leave.”

A wave of the spirit’s other hand and Villeneuve disappeared with all its merrymaking under the gathering night, the singing from open windows fading to silence. Trees bowing under layers of snow smudged until they were indiscernible from the oncoming darkness. Colours drained away until they seemed to be standing in nothing, only the feeling of ground under his feet keeping him assured they were not just floating in empty space.

A couple of blinks, and moonlight filled the empty, bleak-looking dining room, now devoid of festivities and the strange golden light from before. The warmth of the spirit’s hand still soaked his shoulder, but one look told him no hand lay there still. No warm, assuring squeeze, just the memory of the ghost’s kindness. He didn’t need to look around to know that the ghost, his features so achingly like his mother’s, was no longer with him.

He could have returned to bed now, but instead he pulled out a chair, sagging down in it, shoulders rounded, leaning his arms on the table top. Leaning his head on his arms, he closed his eyes, trying to fight against the constriction in his throat, the prickling under his eyelids, the awareness of his reawakened sorrow for his lost mother.

He thought too of the poor child in her father’s arms, and of the mother with her baby, and of the boys in the orphanage, and a heavy nausea anchored, weighed down his conscience. He hated that he didn’t have the first idea what to do. Lower the taxes, that was obviously what the ghost wished him to do, but could he save everyone? What if he failed to save everyone even if he lowered the taxes?

_I’ll fail, I know it._

The prince raised his head, looking up at the windows glittering with stars beyond, recalling the conversation he had overheard. He was still shaken by all he’d heard, but nor did he forget the way the older man—Mrs Potts’ own husband, he had no doubt—had jumped to his defence, quoting his wife’s unwavering faith in Adam’s goodness.

 _“If you need anything, just ask,”_ Mrs Potts had told him, and, coupled with what he had overheard, he had no doubt of her sincerity.

He took a deep breath, trying to bolster any shred of courage in him, despite his fears.

_I’ll fail, but I’ll try anyway, if but for the poor girl’s and the orphan boys’ sakes._

Tomorrow, he resolved to try. He might fail, but at least it would not be for a lack of trying.

But first, sleep.

 


	5. Interlude II

Back in bed, Adam tossed and turned for a while, trying to get to sleep, even despite the hauntings behind his eyelids when he closed them. Clear that sleep refused to visit, the prince threw off the blankets, leaping to his feet, pacing back and forth with much agitation, unable to get the ghost’s face out of his mind.

_So much like her. So much like my mother._

He stopped before a desk leaning under a giant portrait, a hand gripping the table’s edge, head bowing.

_I love you. I miss you still, mama._

Again, that familiar lump in his throat, the scrunch of his forehead as he tried not to weep, again, for her. She’d died so, so long ago—shouldn’t he have been over it by now? Shouldn’t he have journeyed past that?

_I miss you like it’s still the day you…went away._

What would she think now to see him? Would she still love him? Would she be disappointed in him? Tears pricked at his eyes at the idea of having disappointed her. For all his whispers in the dark for her to come back, to show some sign she was still listening…he had gotten back _nothing_. She’d promised to always be there whenever he needed her, whenever he called her name, that the castle would always be home for him as long as he had loved ones around him.

_One word, just a word would do, to end this nightmare._

Wasn’t time supposed to heal all wounds?

He’d thought they healed, and now, they were raw and bleeding pain all over again.

Lifting his heavy head, the prince stared up at the portrait. Though too dark to see the figures clearly, he had every detail memorised, down to the finely painted features of their faces.

“Are you ashamed of me, Mama?” he rasped, words tear-choked, “Is this why you remain silent?”

And he imagined, too, the painting of his father next to his mother, a haughty and cruel gleam in his hooded eyes and twisted lips.

_Am I too much like you now, Father?_

Who was he now? His father’s son—cold, selfish, and unkind? Or still his mother’s son—someone who used to be warm, selfless, and kind?

_What if it’s too late to remember?_

Recalling again the terrible lives his subjects were living thanks to his heavy taxation, his hands came up to clutch at his hair in an element of despair. The homeless people, the struggling orphanage, the people cursing his name, and the poor girl sick in her father’s arms, with no hope of seeing the next year through unless her family could afford a doctor.

_I need to do something. But what can I do?_

Adam imagined twisted lips parting enough to tell him, _“Nothing. They are beneath you.”_

At the same time, he imagined his mother’s voice, somewhere deep inside him, trying to tell him he can do it, she had faith in him.

_Oh, dearest Mama, I don’t want to be like Father, not after what the ghost had shown me._

If the orphanage fell, it would be his fault. If that daughter died, it would be on his shoulders.

 _I envy them. At least_ they _don’t have anything to blame themselves for, for their misfortune._

Adam stopped himself, re-examining this last thought with a closer, keener eye, examining its underlying emotion. Envy. To be sure, he did not envy their terrible fates. But he did envy that they could live day by day, hour by hour, without the weight of several villages upon their shoulders. Even those who had employment whether here in the castle or elsewhere in another village, he found himself envying. At least _they_ could take time off to relax, unlike him. For a prince, there was no holiday, no days off to enjoy himself without a care in the world.  

_Perhaps now I’ll sleep._

A few more minutes of tossing and turning told him otherwise. Sleep clearly was not forthcoming, no matter how tight he shut his eyes as he yanked the blankets over his head. Giving up with a frustrated groan, Adam got back out of bed and pulled on a warm coat and a pair of thick slippers from his closets. If nothing else was going to get him to go back to sleep, then perhaps a walk around the castle’s darkened halls might help, so long as he wasn’t surprised by another ghost visitor who decided to come a night early.

On this fretful a-wandering, a candle in hand, his robes snug against him, Adam soon discovered he was not the only one walking the castle at this time of night—past one thirty. This companionable night-time wanderer was not a ghost, but Chip, tip-toeing down to where the kitchens were. Adam tried to walk quietly by, but his footsteps must have caught in the keen ears of the child nevertheless. For Chip stopped mid-step and turned around, starting in surprise when he spotted the prince.

“Oh, sorry, Prince Adam!” Chip said, but Adam held up a hand to stop him.

“It’s alright, I was just taking a walk around the castle. I’ll leave you be.”

“Are you thirsty as well? You can come have a glass of water too.”

Adam was about to decline the invitation and wish him a good night, but something in him hesitated, as if to weigh up the choice of either meandering in the garden all alone with his troubles, or having a little company to distract him at least for a few minutes. He decided he may as well go with the latter—any excuse for a distraction from his inner turmoil was enough.

“On second thought, I’ll come join you for a little while.”

‘Come on then,” Chip said, “But be quiet, because the grown-ups are asleep.”

“Except for this one.”

“You’re a prince.”

“Still a grown-up.”

Chip opened the door as soon as Adam had joined him, and, again reminding the prince with a _“Shhh!_ ” to be quiet, he tiptoed ahead, the prince following into the dark kitchen, the steps’ shadows dancing in the candlelight. The soles of Adam’s slippers whispered against stone, and the prince saw up ahead of him that Chip’s feet were bare. His toes curled up inside his slippers on imagining how chilly the stone steps must surely feel against the boy’s bare feet.  

_Surely Mrs Potts has money enough for a pair of slippers for him?_

“Have you no slippers?” Adam asked as they made it down the last few stairs.

Chip stopped, turning around with a shrug. “I do it all the time. Doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers me,” Adam said, now shuffling out of his own slippers, fighting back a wince as his feet touched cold stonework. “Have these. I have plenty more—I’m not going to miss these too much.”

Chip shuffled into the slippers. “They’re really big.”

“At least your feet will be warm.”

“But yours won’t.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Leaving Adam’s side, Chip went to fetch a stool out of a corner so he could reach a water pitcher and a couple of clean glasses left aside on the bench.

“I can do this,” Chip said as he dragged the stool over, “I’ll bring water to you. I’m a big boy now, so I can do this by myself.”

Trusting Chip was more than capable—no doubt he’d done this countless times before when thirst struck in the middle of the night—Adam took a seat at the table.

“Have you no slippers of your own, Chip?”

“I hardly ever wear them, even though mama says I should.”

Two glasses now filled up, Chip climbed off the stool and joined Adam at the table, kneeling on a chair. Adam took a glass, taking a sip of water, and to his surprise it did seem to clear his thoughts at least a little. Though much of what he had seen still stayed at the forefront of his thoughts, they did not dominate like a monstrous thundercloud rolling over the sky.

“Guess what day it is now?”

Adam drew himself out of his thoughts. “Christmas Day?”

“No, Christmas _Eve_. One more sleep and I can open all my presents! Do you like presents?”

_I would if I had any._

“Of course. Everyone likes presents, don’t they?”

“What kinds of presents do you like?”

Adam had to think hard on the question—strange how a simple question could be so hard to answer, like one of his old tutor’s riddles.

“A good book,” he said.

“But you have a library with _lots_ of books! I’ve seen it myself!”

“You can never have too many books, Chip.”

“Really?” Chip looked very sceptical over his sip of water.

“When you love books as much as I do, no.”

“I don’t get it.”

Adam surprised himself with a little chuckle. “You’ll get it when you’re older.”

“I’ll ask mama about it,” Chip said with a very decided air, “I don’t get adults sometimes.”

“We’re a puzzling bunch, us grown-ups, aren’t we?”

 “Yep!”

Chip took one last gulp of his water and scraped back his chair to go put it back on the bench.

“I’m going back to sleep now,” the boy declared, slippers slipping around his feet as he walked to the exit. “Goodnight, Prince Adam.”

“Goodnight.”

With that, the kitchen fell silent but for the clink of Adam’s glass against the tabletop as he took a drink then set it back down, surprised to find he was somewhat calmer now than he’d felt before.

But, inevitably, his thoughts were consumed again with the terrible knowledge of what he had done, and the full awareness time was running out.

It wasn’t as though he’d never been up this late before, but it had usually been for some other pursuits, often of the bedroom variety. Odd, too, was that strange way that drowsiness was always heaviest before midnight, and he was most awake in these small hours. He had heard it was the same for even those who were not normally at their best in these tiny hours preceding the dawn.

Walking back down the corridors to his room (so he might find himself another pair of slippers), Adam considered what a shock it might be to Cogsworth when he discovered the prince desired to lower the taxes.

_Does Cogsworth know too of the poor orphanage and the homeless?_

If he did, why hadn’t he told him? Why hadn’t _anyone_ told him? Surely, they must have known through friends and family down in the villages. Did Mrs Potts know the poor girl and her family in Villeneuve? Did his own servants know more than he did?

 _What don’t I know? What haven’t I been_ told _?_

Adam had a creeping suspicion it was more than he ever thought he knew. What other terrible things had happened while he taxed his townships and villages? Did he _want_ to know?

_They would never have said anything to my father either—_

The prince froze in the middle of pulling on a slipper as a bleak realisation dawned upon his heart.

_It’s like they’re still living under my father’s rule. Oh God…_

Did that not explain everything now? How the servants still remained polite and professional around him? How they never told him of what really was going on in the towns? How they never bothered to invite him into a conversation even well after his father’s death? If they really believed he was still the same person he had been, wouldn’t they have returned to their former friendliness with him? Wouldn’t they have shown they cared more for him than they let on?

_What if Plumette was right?_

Maybe he was still like—

No. Stop that thought. Stop it in its tracks. He was going to change, even if he wasn’t sure how he’d do it on his own. He wasn’t sure he _could_ do it on his own, but it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

_I can do it on my own. I’m used to it anyway._

And no one was awake to stop or ask him why he strode out of his bedroom at nearly two in the morning, heading to his study with a candle. If they weren’t awake, no one could stop him, not that they would.

Once in his study, Adam pulled out pencils from a drawer and slapped down some scrap paper in front of him on the desk. But no sooner did the lead of his pencil hover above the blank page, then his thoughts betrayed him by escaping into thin air. Suddenly, he was at a complete loss as what to write. He had to tell Cogsworth and the other servants associated with his treasury something! He couldn’t just leave them an empty page.

_What now?_

He tried to write anyway, trying not to ramble with his request. If anyone asked questions later, he’d come up with something that sounded at least plausible. Perhaps he’d heard in passing from some guest who had passed through the castle once upon a time. Maybe he happened to overhear some conversation about the orphanage. Nothing that would raise an eyebrow in sceptical questioning.

But as he wrote, Adam found drowsiness catching up to him again, his pencil slipping, distorting the finely-written words. His head drooped forward, eyelids closing before he knew they were. He jerked awake at least a couple times no sooner had the weight of his head drooping forward to his chest startled him.

 _I’ll rest a while,_ he decided, folding his arms over each other on the table, leaning his head on them, ignoring the slight cold draft in the room. _Just a few minutes…_

 

Judging by the burst of late dawn—the sun itself had not yet broken the horizon—that hit his eyes when he opened them again, a “few minutes” had transformed into a few _hours_. Outside his door he heard the footsteps of servants walking to and fro in the hallway, and the sound of voices raised in merry conversation, eager for Christmas’ arrival the very next day.

_I fell asleep?_

The door opened a crack, Adam immediately sitting up straight in his chair, wincing at the ache in his arms and back from having been slumped over in sleep over his desk.

“My prince? You’ve been in here all night?”

Adam turned to see Lumiere peeking around the door.

“Lumiere,” Adam greeted him, waving him inside, trying to ignore the pounding in his head, “Come in, take a seat.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Adam echoed, something in him saddening at such a simple question, “Because…to talk.”

Lumiere sidled in, immediately taking a seat on the spare chair sitting against the wall near the door. Adam noticed how he sat up with back as straight as could be, with his feet placed firmly on the floor, too formal even for the maitre’d. He remembered how Lumiere used to slump back on a chair or sofa, legs stretched out before him on the floor or a low coffee table, completely at ease in the prince’s presence.

“You’re allowed to relax, Lumiere.”

Lumiere looked askance at him. “I am.”

The prince pointedly looked him up and down, then sighed, trying to keep sorrow out of his voice.

“I know you, Lumiere. That posture speaks of tension, not of being completely relaxed in someone’s company. If you were Cogsworth, I would say differently.”

Lumiere looked down at his hands, turning them over in his lap before looking back up at the prince, sitting back in the chair.

“You know, everyone’s been noticing it lately.”

“Noticing what?”

Lumiere gestured a hand at him. “You’re changing.”

Adam stared back down at his notes. “You’ve noticed?” his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Let’s see, my prince. Plumette told me yesterday you wished her a merry Christmas, Mrs Potts said you’d shared the longest conversation with her in years, and you gave Chip your slippers for cold feet. After all these years, I should say it’s not something that has gone by unnoticed.”

“Really?”

“It might shock you to know this, but we all have eyes,” Lumiere said, raising an eyebrow with amusement, “We’re certainly noticing.”

Adam looked back down at his writing about lowering the taxes and helping the orphanage.

“I didn’t think anyone would,” Adam admitted.

_When was the last time anyone noticed something good I’d done?_

“Believe me, we have,” Lumiere readjusted his position on the chair, stretching his legs out before him, a pose more like him. “What’s brought all of this on?”

What _could_ Adam say to that? That ghosts had been visiting him and showing him things from the past and present? He wouldn’t blame Lumiere—or anyone else—for thinking him mad should he reveal such things. Who believed in ghosts anyway?

“The past. That’s all. It doesn’t matter, really. I mean, it’s all over, isn’t it? The past is in the past, let it go, all of that.”

If he expected Lumiere to let that pass with complete acceptance, he was proven wrong. To his surprise, Lumiere stood up, bringing the chair up closer to the desk, so now he sat nearer the prince. He was quiet a moment or two, looking out of the window over the desk, before answering.

“It matters to you.”

“No, really, it doesn’t. I’m—” Adam stopped mid-sentence, his thoughts taking a sharp turn. “Lumiere, do you believe it too?”

“I believe many, many things, Prince Adam, one of them being that I believe I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Adam thought of the servants’ conversation in the past, how they believed him to be just like his father.

“Am I just like him, Lumiere?” Adam fought not to let his voice crack, “Do you and the others really believe it?”

A silence, Lumiere looking away, down at his hands in his lap.

_That’s a yes._

“I am.” Adam stared through the paper on his desk, visions of orphanages and homelessness swimming before his conscience. “The orphanage will close and it’ll be my fault.”

“Orphanage? What are you talking about?”

“You must know.”

“I haven’t heard anything among the staff about orphanages closing.”

“There’s a lot of servants at this castle.”

“You know what travels faster than light among us servants?” Lumiere quizzed with a snap of his fingers.

Adam shrugged.

“News. If there’s an orphanage closing somewhere in the kingdom, I have yet to hear of it.”

Adam heaved a sigh, slumping back in his seat, ignoring his stomach’s rumbling for breakfast—that could wait.

“This was not in Villeneuve.”

“You forget, _mon prince,_ I am from Paris. Believe me, I hear things about Paris all the time.”

“Paris is a big city!” Adam let his head fall in his hands with a groan, palms pressing into his eyes with despair, his lungs constricting and closing in him. “This was in a small town! I have to save them! Or it’ll be all my fault—the boys will be thrown out without shelter on the streets, just like the many homeless I’ve seen in the—”

“Adam—”

“I was shown all this! A girl dying in Villeneuve because my taxes are too heavy for the father to pay a doctor. A woman who will lose—”

“ _Adam_ —”

“I have to do it alone! How can a man do this _all_ on his own?”

“But you don’t—”

“I can’t do this, Lumiere,” Adam’s breath came in straggles.  “I’m—how did I _never_ know _anything_ of what was going on? All this taxing—I—you were all right.” He raised his head up, staring down at his shaking hands, “I _am_ just as bad as my father.”

“ _No_. No you’re _not_. You want proof?”

“What proof is there?”

“Oh I don’t know,” Lumiere made an air of thinking very hard about this, ticking off his proofs on his fingers, “Bringing back music and entertainment at dinnertime, allowing us to have proper Christmases, letting Mrs Potts go to her husband every Christmas, you giving Chip your slippers because you hated for him walking around at two in the morning in bare feet in _winter,_ equal pay for _all_ of the staff, surprising Plumette with Christmas greetings, making sure Mrs Potts was comfortable as possible when she was with Chip, and—let me catch my breath—no tolerance for anyone abusing another—I remember the one time you sacked a stable master _on the spot_ after you caught him smacking one of the stable boys around. _And,_ unlike your father, you have never laid an angry finger on us! Believe me, your father’s done that more than once to us.”

Adam flinched at that last part. “He _had_?”

“You have his temper, _mon prince,_ but you never use your fists on us.”

Adam’s blood ran cold. He’d known his father would verbally abuse the servants on a regular basis, and he could imagine him smacking them around, but using his fists on his own staff? His teeth ground in his jaw, muscles tightening at his shoulders.

“He should’ve gone for me instead,” he blurted out, “Better me than you. I’m used to pain.”

Silence, stretching deep and long and disturbed. Uncharacteristically, Lumiere’s countenance turned grave. After a long pause, Lumiere stood up, stretching his arms up to the ceiling, trying but failing to be the picture of cheeriness again after the prince’s outburst.

“Let’s find you some breakfast—I’m sure Cuisinier’s wondering where on Earth we’ve got to.”

“How can I eat after seeing there are so many starving out there?”

“Starving yourself will help no one, if I may be so bold as to say it, Prince Adam,” said a voice from the door, both men turning to see Plumette there, “I’ve been sent up here to see where you were. Your breakfast is nearly cold.”

“Please have it brought up here, Plumette,” Adam requested as Lumiere went to join his love’s side, “And if he’s not busy, have Cogsworth come here too.”

“As you wish,” Plumette said, linking her arm with Lumiere’s, “And…” she glanced at Lumiere, lowering her voice, her eyes travelling back to Adam, a small smile lilting on her lips, “I never wished you a Merry Christmas in return yesterday. Merry Christmas—Eve, yes, but—”

“Thank you, Plumette,” Adam said, and to his surprise, he felt lighter for the holiday greeting warming his heart.

“You’re welcome. Your breakfast won’t be far away.”

 

In due course, a breakfast of sizzling bacon and poached eggs on grilled pieces of toast was brought up to him with a cheery maidservant from the kitchens, who bobbed in a little bow and exited, calling a greeting to Cogsworth somewhere down the hall. Seconds later, Cogsworth himself appeared at the door, coming inside on Adam’s invitation. He took a seat on the vacant chair, attentive and ready for any orders to come his way.

“I gather you wish to talk to me about something.”

Adam glanced at the papers he’d pushed out of the way of his tray. “More or less.”

“I understand it was of an urgent matter?”

Adam pushed his food around on his plate. “Have you heard anything about an orphanage about to close?”

“An orphanage, Prince Adam?” Cogsworth shifted his position slightly, a hand coming up to fiddle with his pocket watch.

“An orphanage that will close by the New Year, leaving many boys homeless if nothing is done.” Adam looked over at him. “Did you know anything of this?”

“Well…” Cogsworth cleared his throat, “I have heard some notion of it.”

“And it’s closing because of heavy taxes.”

Cogsworth tilted his head this way and that, “In so many words.”

Adam’s fork clattered to the plate, heart dropping to his stomach. Sickened, he pushed his tray back, suddenly not hungry anymore.

 _So he_ did _know._

“And you didn’t tell me, why?”

“I—I didn’t think it mattered to you.”

“It _does_ , Cogsworth,” Adam said, looking up at his majordomo, “It does, and I want to do something about it.”

“You do?”

“Yes!” Adam shouted, standing up in his desperation to make them see he _wanted_ to change, he _wanted_ them to help him, “Yes, Cogsworth, I do want to do something about it! You think I’m going to let those boys be homeless? How many people are sick or dying on the streets because of _me?_ Because I never knew what my father’s high taxes were doing to our people! I had no earthly idea, Cogsworth, because no one told me otherwise!”

“We didn’t dare.”

“No, because you think I’m exactly like my father.”

“No, no, we didn’t—”

“Do you _believe_ that, Cogsworth?” Adam asked, pacing the room in agitation, “Do you believe your own words?”

“We had no reason to think otherwise.”

“Because you _never_ did anything to help me after my mother’s death,” Adam whirled around to face him from the other side of the room, “You were silent even after my father’s death. _Everyone_ was silent.”

“We didn’t know what to do.”

“I think you did, but chose not to.”

“it was safer.”

“But is safer better?” Adam slumped against the wall, the room spinning around him from sleeplessness and high emotion. “Was it _worth_ it in the end to leave a boy all alone at the whim of his father?”

Cogsworth’s eyes darted about the room, hand fumbling with his pocket watch, an air of discomfit about his shuffling feet.

“Never mind that now. Shall we get back to our earlier conversation?”

“Why? What was it worth?”

“Our jobs. Now, about the taxes—”

“So your jobs were more important than making sure a boy knew he wasn’t alone?”

“You weren’t alone, Prince Adam. Look, let’s just get back to our discussion—”

“You’re right, I wasn’t, at least physically.”

Cogsworth sighed. “What else could we have done?”

“More,” Adam said, but the little energy he’d had left was lost in the weight of his fatigue. “You could have come up with something.”

 “Well, it’s all in the past. Come sit down.”

_Why didn’t I sack them all before?_

He didn’t know where that thought had come from—but it had come to him nonetheless, nudging up against his other thoughts.

_Would that have been better? How would I have fared then?_

A great desire to demand more answers still lilted within Adam, but it was clear Cogsworth refused to touch the past’s issues and all the pain it had caused for the prince.

_If he won’t listen, then who else would? I may as well not bother._

He was going to have to do this alone. He’d always done everything alone anyway, he was used to being alone.

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves and try to wake himself up—even the delicious smells from the breakfast didn’t work—Adam returned to his seat at the desk. He might as well begin, even if it meant shutting himself off to Cogsworth, battering down the hatches of his expressions to contain the hurricane swirling in his head and heart, seeing it was clear he refused to face what had happened before for far too many years.

_At least I know others here care._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, much to my brain's happiness, we will next see the Ghost of Christmas Future! This chapter really hated me, but I managed to finish it in the end, with some encouragement from @tinydooms (who also has been a fantastic beta-reader for this fic too.) Now for a pop quiz: did anyone catch the reference to the stage musical of "The Lion King" and also to Disney's movie, "Frozen"?


	6. Stave IV: The Ghost of Christmas Future

The countless hours of missed slumber was finally catching up to Adam. It was barely ten at night now, and his eyes threatened to droop shut in desperately desired slumber. But he knew he had to stay up until one in the morning. At the very least, it would be the last time he would have to force himself to stay up so late.

Traversing hallways festooned with decorations, Adam came across more than a few servants, including Plumette and Lumiere, all excited for the big day. No doubt, somewhere in the heart of the servants’ quarters, Chip lay awake in the dark, eyes wide open with pure excitement, wild guesses as to what kind of presents awaited him under the tree running through his head.

The minutes staggered on in a languorous manner; Adam could sense the passing minutes around him, catching in the candle light, flames guttering with the passing seconds. He looked out a window, staring at the stars burning bright in the night sky. The space between the stars seemed infused with the hidden shadows of what was to be revealed in a matter of hours. Far, far below, the wind swept upward from the snow, snuffing out a torch bracketed to one of the walls.

Now it was nearing midnight. He could hear Plumette and Lumiere giggling in the ballroom as he neared it. He cast a glance in as he passed it and saw them sneaking each other a present under the giant Christmas tree. He hung back just out of sight by the doorframe, hardly daring to breathe as another memory burned as bright as the lonely moon in the sky. Once, when he was five or six, he had followed the couple in and watched them pass a present to each other as was their Christmas Eve tradition. On seeing this, he had asked if he could open one of his presents too with them. They had laughed in good nature, and, after much begging on the boy’s part, they had relented, passing a present they both had chosen for him to him.

_ Why can’t things be the way they were before? _

Seconds fell away into whole minutes, but slowly, slowly, the hour hands of all the castle’s clocks began to depart the twelfth hour, brushing up against one in the morning.

For the third night in a row, his footsteps retraced a sorely trodden path back to the study room, with its closed door. He stared at the door handle, hands clenching at his sides in his anticipation, and, before he could hesitate any longer, he quickly reached out and opened the door. He peered into the room, expecting to find  _ something  _ there in the darkness, but as far as he could see, there was nothing. But surely, once his eyes adjusted to the dark, he would turn around and see the Ghost of Christmas Future waiting for him.

Edging a foot inside, he opened the door as wide as it would go, heart pounding as he searched the darkened study for the faintest sign of his third ghostly companion. The clock’s ticking behind him seemed to grow louder at an exponential rate. His shoulders tensed, his breathing hitched, and –

_ Chime. _

One chime.

_ Any time now. _

Adam turned on the spot, ready for this third and final apparition whoever it—or he—or she—might be.

“Adam!”

Adam flinched at the voice, deep, commanding, and severe.

_ Father. _

He backed away into the dark, until he hit the desk behind him, his breath shallow and fast.

“Where are you?”

For, try as he might, he could not locate the voice anywhere in the room. And yet, it seemed to have come from right next to him, as though his father had yelled his name into his ear inches away.

“I am here.”

“ _ Where?! _ ”

“I am here always.”

_ Oh God, what am I to do! _

He felt like he was ten years old again, his father chasing after him from some unknown direction. The same sweat on his palms, the constriction of his lungs, the strange feeling like he wanted to cry, but couldn’t, lest he got a beating for being so weak. Yet, somehow, he managed to pull together enough courage to speak, though not bolder than a croak.

“Where are you? Sh—show yourself!”

The unlit candle on his desk suddenly burst into life, Adam snapping his attention to it. Turning around, he observed how his shadow was thrown over the floor and the wall, towering over him. Staring at his shadow, he had a premonition of what was about to happen. He wanted to look away from his shadow, but found he couldn’t, unable even to back away in horror as it moved of its own accord.

The shadow stretched a hand to him, Adam staring at the long, spindly fingers and the animalistic way the hand clawed for his wrist. He tried to back away from it, but the shadow’s hand clamped on his wrist, Adam flinching on instinct, expecting to feel pain from the inescapable grasp. There was no pain, not even the pain of nails digging into his flesh, as his father would have done in life. But he knew he could not escape if he tried, and he did not bother to struggle.

“Where are you taking me?”

Silence from this apparition, its only answer being to raise its other arm in the direction of the door. With a sharp, silent snap of the fingers, the door flung open, bouncing off the wall. Outside, he could hear Plumette and Lumiere passing through another corridor, presumably off to bed again, though their voices betrayed no signs of being any wearier than they were before. The spectre sniffed as if in disdain at such folly, and Adam felt a stab of indignation at this. How dare the ghost be so dismissive of Plumette and Lumiere’s happiness!

“Leave them alone,” Adam found himself saying between gritted teeth.

No answer from the ghost, but somehow Adam felt he didn’t care any more than he did before. Instead, he tugged Adam along still farther until the prince once again found himself standing just inside an entrance into the ballroom, now completely empty of people, dancing couples or otherwise. Only the prince and the ghost were its guests.

He looked around for his shadowy companion, but he was no longer there at his side. Half thinking he might have imagined his own shadow pulling him along, he was about to dismiss it as some strange side effect of sleeplessness when the two grand candle stands near the empty golden throne burst into life. He whipped around to see the throne was  _ not  _ empty after all.

For, reclining on that throne was someone who looked exactly like him, but his features echoed his father’s, right down to the cold, hard blue eyes. In contrast to the pleasant ghost who had guided him last night, he had the appearance of a man who had spent his life being spoilt, selfish, and unkind. It chilled the prince to see such distaste and contempt twisting his own features. His clothes were so dark a shade of blue they might as well have been black, an unsettling contrast to the sky-blue outfit of the ghost from the night before.

_ He is me. _

Adam jumped when the ghost suddenly snapped his fingers in the air, eyes boring into him, a silent command for Adam to approach at once. Against his will, Adam’s legs began moving him toward the throne, heart hammering, sweat beading on his forehead as if he were approaching his own father himself, even though the man was long dead. The ghost’s hand whipped up from the wrist in a sharp gesture for him to stop where he was. Adam halted, his knees nearly buckling under him.

_ I will not let him see I fear him. I will be brave. I will be strong. Like my mother. _

“Yes?”

Silence.

“You spoke before, and I wish—command—you to speak again.”

The ghost’s lips twisted in the hint of a sneer, tilting his head back so he looked down his nose at the prince.

“I will speak when I wish, Prince Adam,” the ghost told him, “You cannot command me.”

Words his own father would have said to him. And Adam was no longer at the age when he would have submitted to everything his father told him. Terror coursed through him, and yet, that little whisper of bravery struggled through.

“Then I  _ ask _ you, what do you wish to show me?”

The ghost frowned, nose wrinkling in annoyance that the prince had chosen to speak back in such a manner to him.

“When I raise myself from this throne, you will see for yourself what may come in future Christmases.”

With that, the ghost raised itself on its feet, Adam staring as he turned back into what appeared exactly like his shadow—or the shadow of his father—the throne empty once again. He cast around in a panic to see if  _ he  _ still had his shadow, and there it was, on the floor, flickering with the candlelight. He let out a breath of relief. Then  _ this  _ was the ghost, and not his own actual shadow somehow becoming unattached from his body of its own will.

Adam could not tear his eyes away from the shadow of Christmas Future as it walked—no,  _ glided _ —down from the throne to the centre of the ballroom, the prince following after him. No more than nine or ten paces and then the ghost again gestured for him to stop.

A click of the ghost’s fingers and the ballroom was suddenly filled to the brim with women dressed in their finest, dancing for a night with the prince. On the other side of the ballroom, Adam spotted someone who looked like an opera singer decked in the finest jewellery and costume, and beside her, a man in a wild white wig playing a harpsichord with great passion. The ghost stretched a hand out, pointing over the prince’s shoulder. Adam took a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever he was about to see. He did not trust that it would be anything good.

And there on the throne was—himself. Slightly older, his eyes shadowed by feather-like make-up around the eyes. The prince kept watching closely, waiting to see what would happen next as the visage of him stood up from the throne, eyes roaming over the spinning, smiling women.

It occurred to him that the servants were strangely absent, and Adam turned his head to look for them, turning around until he finally located them, standing back in the shadows, barely moving, as though they had become as inanimate as the statues in the room. It was unsettling to see Lumiere so quiet and unmoving beside Cogsworth, Plumette, and Chapeau.

“Why are they hiding back there?”

The ghost did not answer, but only fixed him with a stare until a thunderclap outside made the prince flinch, heart thudding in his chest from the fright. Everyone in the ballroom gasped; even his future self swung around to see what was going on. Adam leaped back as Lumiere squeezed past the terrified dancers to hand future-Adam a candlestick. To Adam’s surprise, his future self just snatched the candlestick out of the man’s hand without a thank you or even a glance up at him.

But it wasn’t the candlestick or Adam that grabbed the prince’s attention now; it was the figure at the door, which had wrenched open with the mysterious visitor’s entrance. A gnarled hand gripped a cane, the robed figure shuffling in, its other hand clutching something to its robes. Adam knew before his future self did it that he would turn the old woman away—and he was ashamed to know that it was exactly what he would have done. Turned away an old woman into the cold, force her back into the arms of Death, on the basis of her ugliness.

The laughter that issued from his future self was echoed by the lady dancers’ own cold mirth. Adam turned his head quickly to see how the servants reacted to this, and still they had not moved from their stations.

_ Stop me,  _ Adam found himself begging them,  _ stop me, do something! _

But they did nothing; even Lumiere had retreated back to stand with the others, disappearing again into the shadows. It seemed to Adam somehow symbolic, how all the servants were cast into shadows, while the dancers and the prince all took centre stage.

_ Do something! _

He swung back to watch as his older self dropped the rose in contempt—did his face really twist  _ so  _ unpleasantly when he was displeased?—the beggar woman flinching at the action.

_ Why does she seem familiar? _

And then the woman began to transform right before everyone’s eyes, and a jolt of familiarity went through him as he caught a glimpse of her face, her eyes never leaving the guests even as they began to turn tail and flee; only the servants stayed right where they were, their own terror registering in their faces.

And Adam’s jaw dropped open on seeing the Enchantress emerging from her old hag disguise, floating gold hair and all. He recognised the cool blue eyes, her long fingers, and the way she floated above the ground.

_ Good God. It’s her. _

And then the screams began.  _ Terrible  _ screams, howls of such torture that even the servants hanging back in the shadows flinched at the sound. Adam’s eyes widened as he observed his future self’s shadow becoming less of a man and more something... _ grotesque _ , with horns erupting from his skull and a voice that rapidly devolved into a low, guttural growl. 

Dazzling golden light exploded in the ballroom, Adam instinctively raising a hand to shield his eyes, breathing fast from the intensity of the experience. When the light dimmed enough that he could open his eyes again, he stumbled back in shock as he beheld the Beast cowering on the ground, shuddering in the agony of his transformation, bathed in the light coming off the Enchantress. From here, Adam could still hear the sickening cracks and snaps as his future self’s bones rearranged themselves into their new formations.

He shook his head as he gaped at the creature with its horns and thick fur, all alone and cold in the middle of the dark room, the Enchantress still hovering over the Beast.

The Beast that once had been him.

“What—” Adam rasped to the ghost.

_ Punishment for what you have become. _

Though her lips had not moved, the Enchantress’s words rung loud and clear, an owl shrieking in through the still-open door, landing on top of the throne.

_ You are exposed as the monster you are in your heart. _

The Beast made a muffled noise that sounded like a cross between a whimper and a groan.

_ Your servants, too, have been transformed. _

“ _ What?! _ ” Adam shouted, whirling on the ghost before he could stop himself, “What have  _ they  _ done, ghost?! Why turn them—”

_ For they have been worth less than objects to you— _ the Enchantress continued, her words echoing eerily, as though they were in the bowels of a cave and not in a fancy ballroom.

Adam hissed in indignation.

_ They have done nothing for you. _

Despite his surge of defensiveness on the servants’ behalf, Adam came up with nothing to counteract the Enchantress’s words, even if no one but the ghost could see or hear him.

“What has she done to them, Ghost?”

The ghost didn’t dignify the prince with an answer, instead shaking its head, pointing a finger back at the Beast and the Enchantress.

“If she has hurt them in  _ any  _ way…”

_ The rose will bloom until the last petal falls,  _ the Enchantress’s words streamed voiceless into his consciousness again,  _ and then it will be too late, unless you learn to love, and find someone who will love you in return. _

Adam twitched at the ghost’s harsh laugh, hollow in its humour. “Who could ever learn to love a Beast?”

He glared over at the ghost, wishing he could just strangle the wretched spirit and be done with it. But before he could give this fantasy any further thought, the ballroom suddenly became drenched in darkness once more, the Enchantress gone with a flash of lightning, leaving the Beast panting from fear, agony, and loneliness in the middle of an empty ballroom.

“Anything else you want to show me, Ghost?”

The ghost snapped his fingers, and they found themselves at the edge of the darkened forest. Adam jumped as two glowing eyes and the breeze from a pair of soundless wings swooped over him with a sharp hoot.

There was no moon to flood the world with light, which made the unsettlingly close, piercing howls of a wolf pack even more frightening than it ordinarily would have been. Adam squinted in order that he might locate the wolves’ silhouettes camouflaged against night-shrouded tree trunks.

The nature of the ghost’s appearance meant he, too, was hidden in the dark. The idea of being unable to find a silhouette of a spectre among the disembodied howls of wolves and the floating, glowing eyes of the owl made Adam feel even more frightened, like a child alone in the dark with no-one to turn to but a cold-hearted father.

“Where are you, Ghost?”

When spindly fingers gripped his wrist again, Adam was shocked his heart did not fail him from the fright.

“Don’t scare me like that!”

He let the ghost tug him forward, his feet never catching on hidden tree roots or suddenly disappearing down unseen holes; indeed, it was like he was floating over the earth, for surely his feet would have caught on something by now.

_ How big  _ is  _ this forest? _

Had the forest surrounding his castle always been this giant? It had always seemed so small in the daytime, though he had found it too enormous and frightening as a child. But surely it shouldn’t be this huge. Or perhaps, it was the night that played tricks on his mind, pretending that the acres of trees yawned without end into the night, stretching out to meet the curiously blurry stars on the distant horizon.

“Where are you taking me?”

He didn’t know if the ghost spoke aloud, but he heard his words all the same.

_ Look at the stars. _

Adam’s words died in his throat as he saw what was now happening to the stars. For they were blurring, their points of light streaking over the sky until they looked like concentric circles patterning the heavens.

“I don’t understand.”

_ Years are passing by for the castle. Elsewhere, time is— _

On their emergence from the forest’s edge, the stars snapped back to their original seats in the sky.

_ —normal. _

“And what happens to me back there?”

The ghost declined to speak again.  

“Speak to me!”

A snap of fingers and Adam found himself blinking in broad morning daylight, right on time to hear a clock in a tower chiming the eighth hour. He recognised this village as Villeneuve, its houses and streets decked in thick swaths of fresh overnight snow. In the distance, he spotted a chimney sweep standing precariously on a roof, trying to do his job even despite his life-threatening position high above the ground. Specks of soot peppered the snow around the chimney’s perimeter. Adam sucked in an apprehensive breath as the boy slid on his bottom off the roof; only when the child landed safe on his feet did the prince breathe easy again.

“Why Villeneuve again?” he asked, staring around, spotting another couple of people resting up against a run-down house, eyes hollow, hands clutching frozen cups of once-hot tea. The presence of wreaths and other ornamentation told him that it was, again, Christmas Day, or thereabouts.

The ghost simply gestured for him to follow.

Adam went and followed him up the trail, a sense of deja vu coursing through him from having gone up this same path the night before with the Ghost of Christmas Present. Eventually, the ghost led him to the front door of a modest house.

“Who’s in here?” Adam asked the spectre.

The ghost regarded him with a haughty look, simply inclining its head, a white, bony finger unfolding in the door’s direction. A snap of spindly fingers and the door flung open, letting a gust of wind into the room. Adam followed the ghost inside, half expecting to see the house’s inhabitants looking in concern at the door, but no one had seemed to notice; as a matter of fact, there was no one there as far as Adam could tell.

The ghost snapped his fingers in the direction of the door and it snapped shut against the howling wind that pummelled against it outside.

_ Why here?  _ Adam wondered, staring around at the empty room.

Noticing his ghostly compatriot ascending the stairs, Adam quickly followed, stepping over blankets tossed on the floor. And as he approached the foot of the stairs, he heard something that sounded like sobbing coming from upstairs. Staring up at the top of the staircase, he couldn’t see much beyond the top step but for a dimmed hallway, a solitary candle in a jar burning on a small table.

“What’s up there?”

Adam flinched when the ghost cast him a belligerent look that looked  _ exactly  _ like his father’s, down to the crinkle at the bridge of the nose. Swallowing, he tiptoed up the stairs behind the spectre without another word, his apprehension growing with each step. He did  _ not  _ like the grim atmosphere, grey and bleak, awaiting him at the top of the bare staircase leading to a hallway with a worn, holey carpet.

Once at the top of the stairs, the ghost swept his shadowy robes in a dramatic fashion, pointing down to the end of a hallway where a woman sat on a chair, rocking, her head in her hands. Adam’s heart jumped in his throat when he heard her strangled sobs, a hand dropping down to fumble for a large kerchief from her pocket.

“My darling!” she wailed from down the hall. “Oh, my darling girl!”

Though he had seen her only once before, Adam recognised the woman immediately.

“That’s the woman I saw in the church last night!” Adam whispered, but the ghost didn’t react, “The one with—oh god.”

_ Her daughter didn’t die...did she? _

Adam’s blood ran cold when a door swung open, revealing a doctor carrying a large leather bag, his glasses on a golden chain around his neck. He looked to the woman and shuffled his feet, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort, as though he wasn’t sure quite how to console the mother. After a few moments of this hesitation, he cleared his throat, but the woman continued to rock in her chair, arms now wrapped around her waist, tears dripping onto her dress.

“My sweet, my little darling…”

The doctor put out a plump hand and patted the woman’s shoulder, but she jerked away from his gesture of condolence. Seeming to understand the mother desired to be left alone, the doctor bowed respectfully and carried on down the hallway, past the ghost and Adam, his footsteps regular and precise as he made his way back down the stairs. Adam stared after the doctor, eyes staring through the top stair. Only the sound of the door shutting tight downstairs jerked his attention back to the present.

Turning around to face the scene of lamentation, Adam saw that the father had come out with his son to join the mourning woman. The father placed a hand on his son’s head when the latter whispered worriedly to his mother.

“Leave her be, son,” the father said in a gentle, low voice. “Go back downstairs and I’ll join you soon and we’ll talk.”

“But  _ maman _ —”

“I know, I know. But your mother wants to be alone now, understand?”

The boy sniffled, wiping his sleeve over his eyes, the fresh tear stains and red eyes striking an ache in Adam’s heart.

_ The poor boy… _

After his father had given his hair one last quick ruffle, the boy shuffled off down the hallway toward the stairs, his head low and shoulders slumped. Watching him, Adam could imagine that boy as himself, leaving his mother’s side after she had died.

Looking back at the ghost, he muffled a yell when he saw his features had become like his father’s again, though with a hint of his own somewhere in there too. The same sneer in the twist of his lips, the jerk of his head to the side in some truncated shake of the head in disapproval.

“They are strangers to you. Why weep at all?”

A blink and Adam reeled as the ghost suddenly became enshrouded in shadows again, the features barely visible. As though nothing had happened, the ghost wafted to the open bedroom door, pausing there as he waited for Adam to catch up to him. Next to the ghost, the father knelt down next to his wife’s chair, pulling her into a tight embrace, rocking with her in their grief.

Adam didn’t want to look in, how could he think anything good would come of this but terrible news of death. And yet, the shadow reached back, grasping his hand, pulling him inside so the prince was now completely in the room, dark for the closed curtains. He could see the shapes of various vials on the dressing table, the discarded damp cloths to try to keep at bay raging fevers, and the silhouette of a girl in bed. She looked fast asleep, but Adam didn’t need to hear the absence of breathing to know. The girl who had the beautiful book was dead.

_ Because of me. _

“No, no, no,” Adam found himself moaning in disbelief, shaking with the recognition of it all, “She’s dead, she’s  _ dead. _ ”

_ She is just a peasant,  _ the ghost whispered into his thoughts.

“She’s not  _ just  _ a peasant,” Adam whispered, no energy in him to feel more than a modicum of indignation at the spirit’s apathy to the loss of a sweet little girl, “She’s a girl who—who had hopes and dreams like—”

Like  _ he  _ had. Like Chip did. Like, he was certain of it, every little boy and girl did before they grew up and found the heavy responsibilities of adulthood laid upon their shoulders and minds.

_ It happens in the world every day,  _ his ghostly companion said without voice.

Again, exactly something his own father would have said.

And the more he stayed here, the more he yearned to leave, to get back to his own world where he had already been striving to make a change.

_ What if that change would be for naught?  _ he wondered in great fear, unable to tear his eyes away from the bed,  _ What if I am too old to change? Is twenty too late? _

“Why are you showing me this?” Adam asked in a croaky voice, “This is all too terrible a vision!”

No words from the ghost, leaving Adam alone with his own wordless haze as he finally tore his gaze away from the dead girl in her bed, turning around to face the dim hallway again.

“What a terrible Christmas Day for them,” Adam whispered, a shiver going through his very soul at the idea, “To lose their girl today.”

The ghost flicked a hand in the hallway’s direction.

“Where are you taking me now?”

He hated the ghost’s silence, haughty and frustrating in its nature all at once. But Adam followed nevertheless, past the grieving couple, down the hall with its single, lonely candle, down the creaking, splintery steps, and past the boy sobbing at the table for his sister, back to the front door. Adam cast one last glance back at the boy, his heart going out to him again.

_ I’ll see to it that the girl gets the money needed. I’ll give it to the family myself if I have to. _

He certainly was not going to let a little boy be all alone without his dearest sister and playmate. He couldn’t imagine how devastated he would have been had he lost Plumette at the boy’s age too. For, while she was not of his blood, she had been as close to a sister as he ever could have hoped for nevertheless. Even today, he would be devastated to lose her.

The ghost clicked his fingers, the door swinging open on its hinges—the boy at the table didn’t seem to notice a thing—and strode out into a gathering blizzard, Adam following a few steps after.

“Are we still staying in Villeneuve?”

The spectre, a smudge of charcoal against the aggressive blizzard, stilled at the question. Adam didn’t bother hoping that he would get an answer out of him, at least not verbally.

The ghost raised his hands, the blizzard swirling around him, sweeping up his cloak-like figure so that he resembled some bat in the night. Adam looked over behind him, back at the house they had just left, a watercolour behind the swipes of howling wind that should have nipped at his nose and encrusted his eyelashes, but there was none of these usual sensations.

The world beyond the blizzard blurred, fading away until Adam found himself standing in the middle of the road of yet another town. Was it another he had visited the night before with the Ghost of Christmas Present, or a new town?

“Where are we?”

He had no idea why he even bothered to ask the ghost anything as the spectre reached for his arm and pulled him forward, so he strode beside him down the street. The blizzard seemed to have followed too, as it still howled and moaned around them. Adam could see shop signs swinging and creaking against the powerful wind, and he flinched away when a cart began to tilt dangerously to one side, a few rotten vegetables spilling out onto the road, quickly snapped up by some stray dogs scavenging for anything to eat in the horrid winter weather.

Adam wrapped his arms around himself as if to protect against the cold as they rounded a corner, the prince stopping short when he saw the beggars and homeless once again lining the street. He instinctively  _ knew  _ he had been down here before with the Ghost of Christmas Present.

_ The orphanage! _

“The orphanage is closed now isn’t it,” Adam said in a flat voice. “All those poor children out in the snow.”

The ghost sniffed, his only words being  _ since the New Year. _

“So it’s Christmas?”

_ Christmas in the future. _

“The same Christmas as...as back in Villeneuve?” Adam couldn’t bear to think about that poor little girl dead in that bed with the curtains closed and her family lamenting outside.

_ Maybe. _

Maybe. So this could have been the Christmas of the same year the orphanage closed, or it could have been a Christmas two or three years down the road.

Either way, it was clear that whatever he would find of the orphanage, he would not like. He ran ahead of the ghost, a great sense of apprehension already swelling in him, a rising nausea twisting his stomach at the thought of all those children being cast out into the harsh winter. He ignored the ghost’s surprise from behind him, trying to get him to come back, but he had to see for himself what had become of the orphanage.

Racing past sickly old men and women huddling together with their families and friends, their backs pressed against the cold stone walls of the buildings, Adam stumbled to a halt before the grand orphanage, now derelict and abandoned. He could see the sign had already become rusted, creaking and groaning like an old person in the high, frozen wind. The windows were dim, and he could make nothing of what was inside. But the emptiness of the place still keened from within. The absence of merry laughter and singing, the shouts and shrieks of boys at play, and the raised voices of adults trying and failing to call orders to their charges.

He scaled the steps to try to wrench open the door, and stumbled backwards when it gave away without a protest in his hand. It creaked open, all cracking wood and splinters, and at the same time he sensed the ghost behind him, waiting without words.

Turning around on the top step, the door open behind him, he looked the spectre in its hooded eyes.

“They’re gone.”

The ghost didn’t move or speak.

“The boys are out on the streets.”

The smallest of nods from the ghost.

“My high taxes did this.”

_ I’m surprised you care so much,  _ the ghost’s voiceless words taunted,  _ Why? Is this what your father would have wanted? _

And from deep within him, he didn’t quite understand from where it had come from, a surge of courage burst in his heart.

“My father is no longer alive, and what he would have wanted—”

_ Does his shadow still haunt you? _

“I—”

And it hit him then why the ghost was a shadow, looming large over him, a vice grip in its spindly fingers and a haughty air about its wrinkled nose and sneering lips. How it had appeared so much like his father.

_ It’s the shadow of my father’s influence. _

The shadow of his father’s influence and what it would bring upon future Christmases for his people should he not try to change and make a better difference. Back at the castle in this...vision or whatever it was, he was a Beast, doomed to live out the rest of his days in isolation, forgotten by everybody, unloved by all.

“What happened to the children in this orphanage?”

The ghost swept an arm out at the street, nodding over at the huddled masses. Adam’s breath hitched when he saw, indeed, there were many more little boys on this street than there had been the last time he’d been here.

“Oh…”

He looked back at the orphanage, squinting up at the abandoned room. The windows had been boarded by planks of wood, there was a jagged hole in another window, and a huge spider skittered past Adam’s feet. The prince, suddenly aware of a huge cobweb right next to his head, ducked out of the doorway in haste.

Looking around, he saw rows and rows of abandoned tables and chairs, and he wondered how long they had stayed undisturbed by anyone. He imagined the only living things feasting in this forsaken place were rodents huddling around under tables and nesting under the windows. And there, on the windowsill of another broken window, he saw what looked to be an empty pigeon’s nest, sticks blowing idly in the wind.

It made him shiver to see it so empty and devoid of life, without the noise and clamour of dozens of happy little boys oblivious that their days in the orphanage were limited.

_ No wonder the Enchantress turned me into a Beast. _

He was sure he’d have deserved it had he let this happen. But he was not so sure his servants ever deserved the same, or a similar, fate as he did. What, besides doing nothing to comfort him that he wasn’t alone, did they do to deserve any punishment?

Unable to stand being in the orphanage any longer, the prince turned his back on the empty chairs at empty tables, letting the wind shut the door behind him as he stepped back outside.

“Surely you have shown me enough?” he demanded of the ghost, more out of desperation that it be over sooner rather than later.

The ghost swiftly swung around to glide down the street again, past a man blowing desperately on black frost-bitten fingers, a couple snuggling together, eyes closed as if they were asleep though they shivered greatly in slumber, and a child building a very tiny snowman, using old, cast aside buttons for its eyes.

_ Terrible, such terrible sights! How can I survive more of this?! _

If the ghost showed him one thing more, surely he would not survive to see another!

_ Can one die of seeing too many terrible sights? _

He imagined it not impossible, for surely he would were he to see any more of awful, saddening moments such as this. To imagine all those poor people homeless in the cold on Christmas Day without any hope of a warm fire, a toasty dinner followed by spiced wine and dessert, and family and friends huddled around the hearth.

The ghost kept on going, his form a smudge of shadow against the grim weather, the sky overhead darkening with black clouds full of thunder and torrential rain ready to be spilt upon the earth. They kept going, trudging over broken wares in the streets, skirting broken carts abandoned in the snow, and the street fell away to a crossroads where he was now led to a quiet little cottage where, peering in, he once again saw the same brunette woman from the night before with her loving father. To Adam, it seemed they were the only figures in this entire town who had missed the grim tragedies that had befallen the others. The music box still tinkered from behind the window, but Adam fancied the melody to have a sadder harmony to it.

“They don’t seem any less happy than last night,” he observed, “Why?”

_ Why are you so interested in them? _

“They seem to have escaped the ravages of what I have done.”

_ I cannot tell you more. Back to the castle. _

The world swirled tight around them, colour melting into drab shades of grey and black, the blizzard pressing in upon them, clearing away abruptly, candles erupting into flame around them. The prince didn’t need to take more than a glance to see he was in the West Wing. He thought he might have come back into the real world, if it weren’t for the ghost at his side nor the Beast hunched over a table upon which sat a bell jar with a half-wilted floating rose inside. And, unlike his own room in his present, this West Wing was a mess to say the least. Oh! And the  _ smell _ ! Adam found the smell of past meaty meals, decay, and poor hygiene so offensive he began to breathe through his mouth rather than his nose, so that he might not be assailed so much by the odour.

“What on earth…”

He stared around the messy wing, the bed clearly not slept in for a  _ very  _ long time, if not since his future self had been transformed.

_ Another Christmas,  _ the ghost whispered without moving his lips,  _ Another lonely day for a Beast. _

“He has still not found love?”

_ Who could ever love a beast?  _  the ghost asked, his tone rhetorical.

And suddenly, from outside, the sounds of an angry mob, Adam running at once to see what the fervour was. The Beast, just as everyone else did in these strange visions, never noticed or reacted to their presence.

Adam gasped. Outside, snaking through the forest, their torches held aloft, he could see what looked to be a huge line of angry villagers sneaking their way up to the castle.

_ To kill the Beast,  _ the ghost informed him.

A prickle of horror went down his spine.

“The servants! Have they abandoned him?”

_ Transformed. _

Transformed. That’s right, they had been transformed for transgressions the Enchantress had claimed against them. Adam still did not see why they had to share in his Beast self’s misery; couldn’t they just have been let go? Or—

Or did they love him too much to go anyway, transformed or not?

Speaking of servants, Adam’s ears perked up when he caught the familiar sound of Cogsworth’s voice, trying to get the Beast’s attention about the mob.

_ “It doesn’t matter now,”  _ the Beast form of him said, not bothering to hide his hopeless despair, “ _ Let them come.” _

Adam’s heart sunk to hear such empty hopelessness in his words, but it rose a little again when Cogsworth made it clear that he, and the other servants, refused to let the mob come and kill him, even if he was an unpleasant personality in the castle. The ghost remained suspiciously quiet on this front, his only reaction being to quickly gesture to the prince to follow him elsewhere in the castle.

It was strange, this, walking through the halls of his own castle with its familiar walls, floors, decorations, and all. He could have reached out and touched the walls and recall the familiar textures. He could imagine the portraits’ eyes following them in the dark from where they sat high upon their places on the walls. And somewhere in the distance, he heard what sounded like a dramatic fight, complete with yells and screams and shouts, from the front entrance.

“What’s going on?”

But the ghost snapped his fingers again, and the world shifted, blurring forward like time had been yanked ahead of itself until all was silent again, a silence that Adam did  _ not  _ like. Something  _ was  _ wrong. Horribly, deeply,  _ terribly  _ wrong.

_ Stay with me,  _ the ghost commanded him as he led the prince through the ajar doors of the front entrance, down, down to the balcony where a candelabra was proclaiming joyous victory in—

That candelabra had Lumiere’s voice. And the feather-duster lying in his arms had to be Plumette; even in this strange transformation, Lumiere showed deep devotion.

_ Oh no… _

_ The last petal has fallen,  _ the ghost said in a flat monotone.

And, deep down, Adam knew exactly what that meant.

They were in this form for good.

_ Did they deserve that? Did  _ I  _ deserve that? _

“ _ Plumette? Plumette!” _

Adam’s attention snapped back to the candelabra— _ Lumiere _ —who was now sagging with the weight of sorrow and despair as Plumette stiffened and became inanimate, a feather-duster with no soul or thoughts, forever.

“ _ Oh my darling Plumette! _ ”

Adam stared as the candelabra sank to his knees, laying the feather-duster on the snow, bowing over in devastation over his beloved Plumette.

_ Because of me. _

He found himself reaching out to Lumiere—no, the candelabra— _ Lumiere  _ and the feather-duster— _ Plumette _ —without realising, like he was trying to offer them some comfort or help. He drew his hand back in some self-consciousness, looking to see the ghost still nearby, looking for all the world unaffected by all that was going on.

_ “Chip! Have you seen Chip! He ran off! _ ”

The British accent left no doubt as to who that was, even though she was now, Adam saw, a teapot atop a tea tray and cart. Both Lumiere and Cogsworth—the latter now a clock—turned with helpless expressions and motions in her direction.

And then—she was gone. Forever. Not even a hint of anything to suggest the teapot was once a beloved servant.

_ “MAMA! _ ”

Adam flinched, looking up, as did Cogsworth and Lumiere, as a small teacup began to fall down to the ground, sure to shatter when he hit.

_ Chip?! _

It was one thing that the Enchantress had turned Mrs Potts into a teapot, but a little boy into a teacup? A form even more fragile than that of Mrs Potts’!

_ He’s going to shatter. _

He made to look away, but not before he caught sight of a coat hanger bending down to catch the teacup literally an  _ inch  _ away from smashing on the snow-laden stonework. Adam let out his breath, at the same time realising that the coat hanger, so quiet and modest in the heroic rescue, had to be Chapeau. Chapeau who straightened up and stiffened forever into the form of a coat hanger.

All that was left were Cogsworth and Lumiere, the former turning to Lumiere, choking on his words, trying to gasp out his last words to his old friend before too becoming inanimate.

_ “Lumiere…my friend…it was an honour to serve…with you.” _

A final chime and Cogsworth was gone too. Adam’s breath hitched, eyes growing wide as Lumiere, who happened to be facing in the prince’s direction, gave his final little bow.

_ “The honour…was mine.” _

And, with one last flourish, Lumiere’s form twisted around until he became a fully formed candelabra for good. Forever.

_ No! _

“NO!”

Adam reeled back from the horror, stumbling backwards, his heel hitting the stonework, managed to steady himself on his feet in time, though his knees trembled with great horror from the scene.

_ Oh my son. They were only servants,  _ the ghost taunted him.

Adam knew before turning around that the ghost would look, once again, just like his father. And—he was, but so much more terrible looking. So much older and more terrifying, eyes cold as blue marbles, his lips twisted into a sneer, looking almost… _ proud _ of him. And in that moment, somewhere deep inside him, something awakened in Adam. Something courageous,  _ shaking in terror _ , but brave all the same like his mother had had to be, awakened in him. Straightening himself up, he looked the terrible ghost dead in the eye.

“They—are—my—family. More than you have ever been or ever will. And  _ you _ ? You are family in  _ name only _ .”

The ghost snarled at him, and lunged, Adam flinching back on instinct, raising his arms as the ghost howled at him, twisting around him until Adam could see nothing  _ but  _ the blackness of the spectre, choking him, sending him to his knees in the snow, cold biting into his feet, soaking into his nightclothes, freezing his hands.

“ _ In—name—only!” _

And he broke down into sobs there in the snow, not caring what the ghost—now strangely absent—thought of him. He thought of the orphanage, of the dead girl, of the lost servants he’d come to see as family, of everything he had done that he had thought right, and now knew to be wrong. His fingers clawed into the snow, his shoulders shook, tears half-freezing as they dripped down his face.

It was only when he heard a familiar shout from the open entranceway did he realise he was back in the present day, and he was somehow out here in the very cold snow on a very cold Christmas morning in the small hours of night.

“ _ Mon prince! Plumette!  _ Get Mrs Potts!”

And he didn’t resist in the slightest when strong hands pulled him back to his feet, wrapping comforting arms around him in a tight hug, the likes of one he had not felt since he was a child. 

 


	7. Interlude III

 

When was the last time he’d had such a tight, comforting hug from anyone, much less Lumiere? It could only be Lumiere with his characteristic tight embraces, arms secure and comforting around him, the way a friend would when comforting another in desperate need. He didn’t realise until now how much he had actually _missed_ such a simple-seeming act of compassion for so long, and Adam could feel the tears prickling under his eyelids as he stood there, just letting himself be held by his childhood friend. Adam didn’t want to cry, he wanted to stay strong, but the tears came anyway, his arms coming up to hug Lumiere as he wept into the maitre’d’s shoulder. His feet were already numb from the snow, goose-bumps prickling his arms even despite Lumiere’s warm embrace.

It was too dark to see Lumiere’s expression when he finally pulled back, hands still on Adam’s shoulders, but the prince could tell he was concerned—perhaps even worried—for him nevertheless.

“Something happened out here, didn’t it? A ghost?”

Adam shuddered, jaw chattering—whether it was more the cold or the memories he wasn’t sure.

“Y-you could s-say that.”

“Come on, let’s get you inside where it’s warm,” Lumiere wrapped his arm around Adam’s shoulders, supporting him as they approached the entrance, “I know how to do many things, _mon prince,_ but thawing an ice statue that once was the prince is not one of them.”

Adam knew Lumiere was trying to be light-hearted for his sake, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to feel anything but numb shock. He wrapped his arms around himself even tighter, desperate to hold on to the last strands of warmth left in his body.

“There’s coals still burning in the fireplace in the drawing room,” Lumiere said, “We’ll just go in there, at least until Plumette comes back with Mrs Potts.”

Too frozen to speak, all Adam could do was nod. His toe caught on something and he stumbled, and he would have likely fallen in the snow, too cold to react quickly, if Lumiere had not been supporting him.

“Take it slow, Prince Adam, we’re not running a race.”

Now inside, Lumiere kicked the door shut, trapping the winter weather outside. Adam could feel himself sagging as the relatively warm interior of the castle washed over him. He let himself be led to the drawing room where the dying embers still glowed in the fireplace. Lumiere led him to a couch, and Adam collapsed back into the soft seat.

_How have I never noticed this couch was so soft before?_

At the same time, Adam wondered why Lumiere was helping him at all, when he’d likely had no reason to all this time. Too exhausted to gather the strength to speak right now, he simply watched Lumiere stoking the fire with more wood, the fire leaping up with hungry earnestness. Already, Adam could feel the heat of the room soaking into his bones, feeding his shivering body with much-needed warmth.

Lumiere stood up from where he’d been crouching before the fire, and, instead of going to another chair as Adam expected him to do, he rummaged around behind a sofa, finally coming up with two thick blankets in his arms. He strode over to Adam, unfolding one blanket and wrapping it around Adam’s shoulders, and the other he draped over the prince’s legs, his feet immediately curling under the wool, hungry for needed warmth from being in the freezing snow. Adam sunk back into the cushions, relishing the itchy, woollen warmth of the blankets.

“Warmer?” Lumiere asked as he sat down on the seat next to the prince, who stared over at him.

‘Why?” Adam whispered. “Why did you help?”

“Because we _care,_ Adam,” Lumiere said, not unkindly, “Mrs Potts cares, Plumette cares, as do Cogsworth, and _especially_ Chapeau. We all do. We have been your family. We _are_ your family. Always.”

Adam stared at him, at a loss for words.

“Even if you thought we didn’t care, we did anyway.”

Adam stared down at his hands lying atop the blanket, his blue fingertips already returning to their normal colour.

“As Cogsworth would say, you weren’t the most pleasant to be around, but come on, nowhere near as bad as your father was.”

Adam flinched before he could stop himself, the memories of the Ghost of Christmas Future rushing back to him. He forced himself to take a deep breath.

“How much did you see? Did you see the—him—I mean the ghost of him?”

Lumiere placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “Just enough to scare the wits out of Plumette and me, that’s all.”

“You _saw_ him?”

But before Lumiere could answer, there was Plumette’s voice from somewhere far away, calling after her love. Lumiere only had to call out to her where they were and a mere moment or two later, there was Plumette and Mrs Potts at the door, pausing just in the room, eyes locking on to Adam’s.

“Adam!” Mrs Potts cried out, pushing her candlestick into Plumette’s hands, rushing to the prince, throwing her arms around his shoulders in a tight hug. Once again, Adam felt an overwhelming urge to break down crying, his arms coming up to cling on to her, burying his face in her shoulder. He could feel Plumette sitting down next to him, her hand on his back, and all this comfort in the span of several minutes was too much for Adam, and he found himself weeping again. Mrs Potts tightened her hug as his tears soaked the shoulder of her dressing gown.

“Plumette? Be a dear and get some tea from the kitchen will you?” Mrs Potts requested of the maid.

“Right away, Mrs Potts,” Plumette said, withdrawing her hand as she stood up; Adam could still feel her warm touch on his back lingering. “I’ll be back soon.”

Adam finally lifted his head up, still shaky, letting go of Mrs Potts as she stood up to take what was Plumette’s seat. Lumiere came over to sit on his other side. Adam took a deep breath, trying to stop himself shaking—why could he not stop shaking?

“You should have heard Plumette when she pounded on my door,” Mrs Potts said, “She was in a right state, she was.”

“Really?”

“Well, to hear what she said of it! Said you were yelling at some ghost—she was _certain_ it was your father’s ghost—and then you breaking down after.”

Adam slumped in his seat, nodding without a word, recalling all the terrible things the Ghost of Christmas Future had said and shown to him. A faint nausea settled in his stomach at the recollection of the ghost—had it just been minutes ago he’d seen the last of him? Had railed against him, shouted that he was family in name only?

“What _did_ you see?” Adam half-whispered to Lumiere.

‘On the surface? You yelling at thin air.”

“Oh.”

“But you seemed to be buffeted by some high wind in an otherwise calm night. And we saw what appeared to be, for a breath, a ghost.”

Adam inhaled sharply. “But the Enchantress told me—”

“Enchantress?”

“—that you wouldn’t be able to.”

“We did, Adam, and if we weren’t awake before then, then _sacre! That_ certainly woke us up!”

Adam shivered. “I don’t want to see him again.”

“None of us do,” Mrs Potts concurred, readjusting the blanket over his shoulders, tucking it in a bit more firmly, “And I’m sorry we could not have done more than we did to try to help you.”

“So am I,” Lumiere added, “And Plumette too, have no doubt.”

Adam shook his head, “What could you have done? Even I could see from what the ghosts showed me it was complicated.”

“Wait,” Lumiere held up a hand, “Ghosts? Plural?”

 “I—I’ve seen other ghosts these past few nights. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Adam’s mind flashed back to all those things the other ghosts had shown him. He looked at Mrs Potts and remembered her fury at the servants when they talked so badly of him—though they, on reflection, _did_ have valid points. He turned to glance over at Lumiere, recalling with a stab of guilt how he’d returned the gifts to him and Plumette.

_What a horrible person I was._

 “I should never have done that,” he blurted out, not surprised when Lumiere gave him a look of bewilderment, “The music box—the juggling balls—I should’ve—I—”

Right then, Plumette returned with a large silver tray laden with empty cups and a freshly boiled kettle of hot tea, setting it down on a small table in front of the others. She picked up the kettle, pausing as she addressed Adam.

“I’ll pour you a cup of tea first, Prince Adam. You could really use one.”

Adam squeezed his hands tight and relaxed them again, hoping they didn’t tremble too much for him to hold the teacup. He closed his eyes as Plumette poured out the tea, the strong aroma already calming his frayed nerves.

“Oh no, he’s fallen asleep already.”

Adam’s eyes snapped open, “No I haven’t, Lumiere.”

He wasn’t sure he would even fall asleep at all tonight after all that he had seen.

“Cup of tea coming,” Plumette said, now picking up the teacup and saucer to place it gently in his hands, before going to kneel down at Lumiere’s feet, leaning her back against his legs. Lumiere leaned forward, winding his arms around his beloved’s shoulders, leaning his chin on her head. But Plumette’s attention was trained on Adam, consternation filling her dark eyes.

“How are you feeling now?”

“I…I don’t know. Should I be feeling something?”

“No, you don’t have to,” Mrs Potts assured, “But you’ve clearly had a few traumatic nights, with plenty of ghosts of the past to visit you.”

“You believe me?”  

“I used to be that odd young girl who had a deep fascination for haunted places and ghost sightings—and Britain is _full_ of them—even well into my twenties. So if anyone here is going to believe you, it’ll be me.”

“And we’ve been seeing you change dramatically over the last few days,” Lumiere added, “Even during our conversation earlier today—or yesterday, as it were.”

“He’s right,” Plumette agreed, “We really have seen you start to change, for the better.”

“Wouldn’t you rather go to sleep?” Adam asked, fully aware of the late hour.

“Not for a while yet,” Lumiere assured.

“It’s…it’s a long story.”

Plumette leaned the side of her head against Adam’s knee, a gesture at once comforting and sisterly in its own way. “We’re listening.” 

“I’ll stay up all night if I have to,” Mrs Potts added, “I can assure you, as a mother, I’m used to it.”

And so he began, slowly, haltingly, to tell them of what had happened, sure they would not believe him. 

“There—the past few nights, there were three ghosts…”

“Start at the beginning,” Mrs Potts urged, now peering closely at him.

Adam took a long sip of the strong tea, wincing at its strength as it flowed down his throat. He set it back down on his lap, watching without really seeing how the liquid rippled with his movement.

“It started three nights or so ago…”

He hardly dared look up at them as he explained about the Enchantress with her long flowing hair, her impassive eyes, and unmoving lips, the way her words had pierced his very soul. He was convinced if he looked into their eyes, he would see pity and disbelief, thinking him out of his mind. He felt more than saw Mrs Potts lean back in her own seat, stretching her slippered feet out before her.

“I had a visitation—no, three visitations from ghosts, over the last three nights—”

“So that’s why you’ve been so exhausted the last few mornings,” Mrs Potts observed.

“All the ghosts would only come at exactly one in the morning.” Adam took a deep breath. “First, there was the ghost of Christmas Past, who showed me the past.”

Adam shivered as he remembered the ghost of Christmas Past, whom had looked exactly like himself as a child, but sans a shadow and any sign of life in pinprick pupils despite the dark. He had a vivid recollection of that ghost’s hand, how it had blurred between his own, his mother’s, and his father’s.

“He appeared exactly the age I was when she died.” Remembering the first thing the ghost had shown him, Adam’s throat closed up with some sadness and longing. “I—I don’t think all the memories were my own—how could they be, if I hadn’t been there for some of them? Because the first thing the ghost had shown me was Chapeau and my mother.”

A general gasp from the other servants; the air itself seemed to hold its breath with anticipation.

“I think I would have remembered had I seen them together and—”

“No doubt you would have,” Lumiere interjected, “Chapeau loved your mother very much.”

Adam looked over at him, knowing how close he was to Chapeau.

“Does he still have that locket with her lock of hair?”

Lumiere straightened up, arms loosening around Plumette, hands resting on her shoulders, fingers squeezing them in the lightest of massages.

“Impossible! You could never have known of it!”

“I never did,” Adam said, “And I never knew how much he loved her.”

Lumiere nodded, giving him a sad smile. “Very much, my prince.”

“And he still…”

“He still mourns her, and keeps that locket with him all the time, even if in a pocket. And do you know—have you heard him play music near your room before?”

“Yes?”

“That was for you too.”

Adam’s heart skipped a beat, and a sense of warmth overwhelmed him, imagining Chapeau playing his cherished violin in some nearby spot in the hallway, swaying with the melody.

“I…I must thank him tomorrow.”

“You mean today, _mon prince._ ”

A rueful smile. “Yes, today.”

“What else did you see, Adam?” Plumette asked.

He took a deep breath, remembering vividly even now what had happened next, how they had fast forwarded to the following Christmas when his mother had already passed away, and Chapeau had donned mourning colours from then on. Now he turned his attention to Mrs Potts.

“Is it true then, what my father did?” he asked, and, on seeing her confusion, added, “Never let you see your own husband at Christmas?”

Mrs Potts shook her head. “I’m afraid so, Adam. Which is why I’m grateful that you allow me to do so now.”

“I suppose not all my conscience was dead by my father’s death. And—I had meant to allow for you to go for up to a month from now on. You and Chip deserve to be a part of family a lot more than just every weekend.”

Mrs Potts’ smile grew warmer with each word, her eyes crinkling at the corners, as she reached out and took one of his hands, squeezing it.

“Thank you, dear,” she said, “It will be much appreciated.”

“You’re welcome,” he found himself saying, leaning forward to replace his empty teacup on the table, before reclining back in the seat again. “I can’t believe I didn’t know this for so long!”

“It’s not your fault,” Mrs Potts hastened to assure him, “I knew you would let Chip and I return to Jean in the village each Christmas, unlike your father. It’s _not_ your fault, understand?”

Adam nodded.

“What else did the ghosts show you?”

And so he continued his tale of what the ghosts had shown him of his past, including the part where the spectre had shown him that conversation between the servants about how terrible of a person Adam had become. Recalling the conversation again reminded him of how he had once returned gifts to Lumiere and Plumette, and once again, he recalled that horribly hurt expression the latter had when he’d done that. He bowed his head, hardly able to bring himself to look at them, so terrible was his guilt.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, “that was a truly horrible thing to do, and I—I have no excuse for what I did.”

Plumette looked round at him, nodding in acknowledgement of his words. “It was a very hurtful thing to do, Adam.”

“I should’ve known better.”

“Yes, but then, at the same time, you were a boy who was going through some tough times,” Plumette said, “You were bound to lash out.”

With a jolt, he remembered again the ghost’s white hair, at sharp contrast with his youthful face.

“Oh my god…the ghost’s hair was white,” he shivered as a thought came to him, “could it have represented the loss of what…what should’ve been a happy childhood?”

“Perhaps,” Mrs Potts said, “And more’s the pity that you didn’t get to have a happy childhood like so many of us.”

Adam continued on with the tale, the kettle’s steam already gone, the tea inside lukewarm as the prince told of the Ghost of Christmas Present and his charismatic personality. The prince recounted how he had shown all the horrors that had been going on in the villages and towns under his rule without his knowing about it. He remembered with great clarity the girl and her father, unable to pay for a doctor’s visit, much less for the curing medicine. It was at this that Mrs Potts gave a soft cry of alarm.

“I know them!” she whispered, eyes wide with astonishment, “The little girl! She has a great love for books and paintings.”

“And—and they really can’t—”

“They cannot.”

Adam sagged in his seat, hands coming up to rub at his face. He was too tired to be angry at why no one had told him—though deep down he had a suspicion he full knew why they didn’t.

 _I would have ignored it,_ he told himself, _I would have turned them away._

His hands shook as he lowered them from his face.

“I have to help—no, I _want_ to help,” he sniffed quickly, not wanting to start crying again—he probably would never stop—“I want to help them and all the people—and the orphanage—and that baby—what have I done? What—”

Mrs Potts grabbed his hands in hers, so firm and warm.

“Adam, I laud your desire to help everyone, but you must remember too there have always been homeless and poor people.”

“But I want to help them.”

“I know—and I’m not saying you shouldn’t—but you must keep in mind you cannot help _everyone_ , but you can always try your best to help as many as you can.”

“She’s right,” Plumette agreed, her voice catching, “I, of all people, know this well.”

Remembering how Plumette had lost her whole family to sickness, Adam couldn’t help but withdraw one of his hands from Mrs Potts’, placing it around Plumette’s shoulders in a small gesture of compassion. In response, she leaned her head against his knee in acknowledgement of the gesture.

“Those you are able to help will be grateful for it, but even if those you try and help are lost, it’s not your fault. I want you to know this.” Plumette reached up and touched his hand resting upon her shoulder.

“I care no more what my father would have thought,” he said, fatigue overwhelming him so suddenly the world spun for a moment or two, “I want to do what is right, even though it is late in my life—”

“No, it is never too late to change,” Mrs Potts interrupted, “I am over twice your senior, and yet I find myself a slightly different person with each passing year.”

“But you’re the same Mrs Potts I know every year.”

“The essence of me, yes, but it is never too late to learn something new about yourself or life.”

“You are a wise woman,” Lumiere spoke up, Adam starting in surprise—he’d been so quiet—“and trust me, Adam, she’s right.”

“And see?” Plumette piped up. “Your conscience is still healthy, if it bothers you so much now you know.”

“But I should’ve known earlier—much earlier—”

“I don’t think you would have taken much note of it,” Lumiere said, painfully honest, “But on the other hand, I doubt this Enchantress and her ghosts would have shown you had they not believed you would be stricken so with alarm.”

“It’s one thing to _hear_ of such tragedies,” Plumette said, eyes brighter than usual, “Another to be shown it with your own eyes.”

Adam could not agree with her more on this point. So he continued, speaking more on what the ghost had shown him, and how, even despite their hardships, so many people had still managed to find happiness even in the darkest of times. He recalled the choir of rosy-cheeked, gloveless boys singing Christmas carols with all their hearts, and of the little girl singing along with charming shyness to the poor lady’s flute playing. He remembered the man on the bench helping the little boy to read for the first time, and of the girl receiving a previously-loved doll from her big sister. He told—much to Plumette and Lumiere’s delight, naturally—of the wedding and the proposal he had seen by two separate couples on this blessed day. He remembered the boys in the orphanage, how they had laughed and sang, unaware their only shelter was to close by New Year’s if nothing was done.

“I’m going to help them,” Adam said, “I want to. Believe me.”

Lumiere reached an arm over and slung it around Adam’s shoulders. “After what we’ve seen and heard the last few days and tonight, I absolutely believe you, my prince.”

“You do?”

“A thousand percent!”

Adam blinked. “That’s not possible—a hundred—”

“I never was one for maths,” Lumiere shook his head, “Now, if you asked me about the best magic trick to show at dinner— _that_ I can do.”

Plumette added, “I believe you too, Adam.”

“We’ll try to be there for you—or at least more than we had been before—from now on,” Mrs Potts said, “Believe me?”

Adam looked round at each of their faces, and he could not find a reason to doubt them.

“I believe you,” he said at last.

“Good.”

A short pause here, and for the first time in many years, it was a pleasant silence that had fallen in the room between the prince and the three servants clustered about him.

“Do you want to tell us anything more?” Mrs Potts asked.

Adam was about to continue when it hit him, a blow to his incidental calm, what would come up next in his tale. He sorely doubted that he had the energy now to return so soon to what had happened between him and the Ghost of Christmas Future. It seemed the others sensed this, as Plumette again leaned her head on the side of his knee, Lumiere gave his shoulders a squeeze, and Mrs Potts put a hand to his back, giving it a few gentle pats.

“The ghost of Christmas Future—that was—“ he forced a breath into his lungs, “That was the one who came tonight, who was me— _future_ me—and also my father.”

“That was the one who led you outside into the snow?” Plumette half-whispered, sounding shaken.

Not trusting himself to speak, Adam nodded. Plumette closed her eyes, forehead scrunching as though to hold back tears. If Adam feared at all that they would have him relate all that had happened tonight, he needn’t have done so.

Mrs Potts said, “Listen, if you would rather talk about this ghost at a later time, when you are ready, then we’ll understand.”

“I could tell it was a bad one soon as Plumette and I saw you,” Lumiere concurred, “Absolutely understandable if you’d rather leave it for another day.”

Another nod from the prince, a shaky smile of gratitude. “Thank you.”

“I believe a good night’s rest is what you’re missing right about now,” Mrs Potts declared, getting right to business as always, “Let’s get you to bed.”

Bed sounded good right about now, his weary, shaking body in full agreement with the idea. Plumette quickly got to her feet, moving out of his way as he began to prepare to stand up.

“Don’t mind the tea tray, Plumette,” Mrs Potts assured her, “That can wait till the morning.”

Adam was grateful for Mrs Potts and Lumiere supporting him as he stood up, legs nearly buckling under him from exhaustion. Lumiere held on to him as he stepped out of the blankets, Mrs Potts bending down to throw them back on the sofa behind them.

The prince winced at the sharp cold as soon as they stepped out of the warm room, already missing the warm blankets and the lukewarm fireplace. But that was tempered by the thought that he would soon be in his bedroom anyway, where he could slip into sumptuous covers and let his head rest against plump pillows resting on a soft mattress. He marvelled that he did not stumble on the way up the stairs to the West Wing. Lumiere and Mrs Potts walked alongside him, arms around him in support, as Plumette walked ahead of them, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t leaving them behind. Their shadows flickered and danced in the light coming from the fluttering candle held in Plumette’s hands, and for the first time in three nights, the shadows comforted him.

“We’re here.”

Plumette’s words started him out of his heavy drowsiness to find that, indeed, they had already reached the open door of his room. He nearly sagged with relief, knowing that in a matter of minutes, he would be able to fall asleep, at peace in knowing he was about to make a new beginning, and this time he would not be alone.

Within minutes, he found himself back in his bed, eyes already closing even as the other servants fussed about him, making sure everything was in order for his night’s—or whatever remained of the night—sleep. Naturally, it was Mrs Potts who insisted that he sleep in as late as he wanted to, and if she found him wandering about before nine in the morning, she would hustle him back to bed, insisting that he got at least that _one_ more hour of slumber. Plumette and Lumiere added that they too supported Mrs Potts in him getting a _proper_ lie-in. And, after all, it was Christmas Day, and therefore a perfect day for a sleep-in.

“Goodnight, Prince Adam,” Plumette whispered, squeezing his shoulder under the blankets briefly before going to join her love’s side, “And you _must_ promise us to have a proper rest in the—“

“In the morning, yes, I know.”

“We won’t run away to a distant, undiscovered island on the other side of the globe while you’re asleep, _mon prince_ , I swear.”

Adam, despite his fatigue, couldn’t help a weak laugh at that.

“You _could_ if you so desired, Lumiere,” he quipped sleepily, before a great yawn interrupted him.

“Sleep well, _mon prince._ ”

“Goodnight.” That was Plumette.

Adam listened as Lumiere's trot-like gait and Plumette’s graceful tip-tapping faded out his door. Only Mrs Potts was left with him now.

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” she asked.

Adam nodded, eyes closed with the weight of fatigue. He felt Mrs Potts pat his hand.

“Get a proper sleep and we’ll see you in the morning.”

“Won’t you be gone early?” Adam asked.

“Usually, yes, but not this time—I’ll have someone drive Chip ahead to the village with a message saying I may be a little late.”

“Won’t your husband miss you?” Adam was too tired to manage anything above a whisper.

“Of course he will, but he’ll understand. You sleep now and we’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mrs Potts…”

 

When he opened his eyes again, bright morning sunlight met bleary blue eyes. Judging by the sun’s height in the sky, it was at least late morning, probably after nine. He closed his eyes again, the light too bright for his still dark-adapted eyes, edging them open a little when he felt they wouldn’t hurt so much against the daylight. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear Lumiere and Plumette singing a rousing duet together, followed by a distinct, enthusiastic applause from their audience. He could hear Cogsworth laughing heartily with Mrs Potts somewhere down the hallway a little to the left, and, above all of this chatter, he could hear what sounded like a violin playing right outside his door. A familiar melody that was not a Christmas tune, but more beautiful and tender than any carol Adam could name. A song of hope and delight yet to come, a promise of a brighter future in the decades yet to be. He wept again, but in happiness and relief, knowing now he would not be alone.

_Days in the sun,_

_Where your life has barely begun._

_Not until my whole life is done,_

_Will I ever leave you._

This time, he knew, they would _never_ leave him, not until their whole lives were through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter which was delayed in its coming (Muses decided it was the perfect time to go on a vacation to Pluto or something.) Now there's just the epilogue to write, and we're done!


	8. Finale

** Finale **

Christmas that year was the best one Adam could remember since his childhood, so long ago. He made sure to dress in his finest, but deliberately chose not to go as overboard as he usually did, even deciding to forego his usual wig. When Plumette knocked at his door to do his makeup, he at first declined the offer, not feeling the desire anymore to wear the dramatic amounts he usually did.

“Even just a little?” she coaxed. “Perhaps a little highlighting or contour?”

He caught his reflection in a mirror, a face he did not see often, with or without makeup. He tilted his head this way and that in consideration.

“Just the smallest amounts, then, Plumette, if it would make you happy.”

And make her happy it did, and, with a little “Merry Christmas,” she applied just a touch of makeup to his face, keeping up small talk as she did so. She spoke of a surprise waiting for him in the dining room. The others down in the kitchen were already serving up a hearty breakfast with great song and dance.

“It sounds wonderful,” he said, “I wish I could be a part of it.”

“Of course you will be,” Plumette assured at once, finishing off a final touch of makeup, “From now on, you will, you hear me? There, you look presentable.”

He cast a gaze into his reflection again, and was pleased to see that even with the little touches of cosmetics courtesy of Plumette, he still looked very natural.

“Presentable? Just presentable? You speak too modestly of your own gifts, Plumette—it’s _perfect_.”

“As it should be. Now come down to breakfast, if you wish, Prince Adam.”

And what a surprise awaited him in the dining room! Coming to its entranceway, Plumette beside him, he came to a halt as his closest servants waved from within with much merriment and Christmas wishes. Chapeau, his violin at hand, gave a little bow to him, asking what carol he would wish to hear first, and he would play for him. Lumiere swept his arms out grandly at the huge buffet on the table, inviting the prince to “be our guest!” Mrs Potts—Chip, it seemed, had already been bundled off to the village—swept over in her gorgeous Christmas dress to wrap him in a close embrace and a warm “Merry Christmas, Adam!”

Mrs Potts had barely let go of Adam when Lumiere strode up to him and affected a dramatic bow, accentuated by a grand flourish of his arms.

“My Prince! ‘tis the season to be jolly and join us for the best Christmas breakfast in all of France!” Lumiere declared.

Adam couldn’t help bursting out into laughter—the joy and merriment was too infectious for him not to.

“I trust it will be the best breakfast in all of France,” Adam said.

And, seated at the table hardly a minute later, tucking into his Christmas breakfast, he was certain it really _was_ the best in all of France, made all the better that now he had someone to share it with.

He would no longer be alone at Christmas, with those he loved celebrating the jolly season right along with him.

* * *

 

The weeks passed and though nothing became pristine perfect, nevertheless, life at the castle was now so much better than it had been for countless years. His frayed relationship with the servants did not heal within a day or two. As with all wounds of any nature, time was the greatest healer. The past was not easily dissolved and forgotten with one hug or comforting word. No, it was always there, as much a part of the castle as it was with its inhabitants. They all had to face it, talk about it, acknowledge its perpetual presence. But, hard as it was at times to examine it, with each acknowledgement, it became just that little bit easier to look it fully in the eyes.  

It took Adam a while before he could finally tell Plumette, Lumiere, and Mrs Potts about the Ghost of Christmas Future. But when he did, in a quiet, private gathering in one of the sitting rooms, it was like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders and his mind all at once. Plumette had clasped her hands to her mouth in horror for most of it, Lumiere was quiet throughout, and Mrs Potts grabbed his hand and held it tight until the story had ended. All three were deeply shaken by all that he had to tell of his “adventures” with the terrifying ghost, so much like his father that it still gave him nightmares even over a month later.

“Little wonder you could not bring yourself to speak of it for so long,” Plumette said, lowering her hands from her mouth, quickly wiping at her eyes. “I am so, _so_ sorry.”

Adam was sure he’d never had such a tight hug from Plumette before. He’d returned the gesture, giving her a reassuring pat on the back.

“It’s over now, I’m going to be fine.” When he saw the others didn’t look convinced, he added, “I’m sure there will be no more ghosts anymore, especially not of… _him._ ”

“I should hope so,” Mrs Potts said, drawing him into a tight hug, “Just remember we’re here from now on.”

Adam managed a smile. “I know, and I thank you all for it.”

The days from then on were lighter than they had been before, for virtue of having opened up about the traumatic night with that wretched Ghost of Christmas Future.

And, he discovered over the following weeks, that the nightmares all but disappeared once he had spoken of that terrible night. He was no longer afraid, he had shed whatever else of his father had clung to him, letting it all finally stay in the past right where it belonged.

He was finally at peace, _truly_ and deeply at peace, with himself, especially in knowing he had taken measures to make sure as many people in his kingdom would have far happier lives in the forthcoming years than they ever did before. He saved the orphanage from closing with a generous donation that would keep it running for at least four or five more years, but he had promised them he would donate more when the need arose. The little girl in the village had been saved; he’d sent more than enough money for the family to afford a doctor and the medicine needed. By all accounts from Mrs Potts over the next several months, the girl was quickly becoming healthy, rosy, and plump with health once more.

He could not have heard happier news to know that his change of heart was being felt all across his kingdom, his people seeing a brighter and less bleak future that had been beyond their reach for far too long. And now, he would help them reach that future, bring it within their reach, knowing their lives would now be full of light once more.

* * *

 

One late June morning, two guests from Villeneuve came to the front doors of the castle: an older man and his daughter. They had moved in to the village several months ago, but had already made a reputation for themselves. The man, older in years, true, but his mind was as sharp as any young person’s, and was an accomplished artist and maker of music boxes. Intrigued by all that he had heard of the man’s talents, and his daughter’s penchant for invention, Adam had to request them to come to the castle as esteemed guests.

Naturally, it was Lumiere who greeted them first, as was his duty as the _maître d’hotel_ ; at the same time, the servants in the kitchen were readying up a hearty lunch to welcome their new guests. Adam was patiently waiting in the main reception room where they were brought before him.

Adam offered his guests a genuine smile. “I am pleased to meet you at last. You must be Monsieur Maurice and Miss Belle?”

The man nodded in confirmation. “Yes, Your Highness, I am Monsieur Maurice, and this is my daughter, Belle.”

Belle didn’t smile, but she inclined her head in a formal fashion. “Good day, Prince Adam.”

“I expect you will be hungry from your travelling here from Villeneuve,” Adam commented, “Lunch will be ready soon.”

“I _am_ just a little bit hungry,” Maurice admitted, offering the prince a polite smile, that looked genuine all the same, “Lunch would be most welcome.”

It wasn’t long before their guests were seated at the table with a few of the other servants ready at their beck-and-call, including Lumiere and Plumette.

“I expect you have things you love to do in your spare time,” Plumette said to Belle near the end of lunch, “What do you like to do, Miss?”

“Inventing is a favourite of mine,” Belle answered, “But my greatest passion is for reading. My favourite author is Shakespeare.”

Adam looked up so fast from his lunch at the woman’s reply he was sure he strained something in his neck.

“You love books too? _And_ Shakespeare?” he blurted out, pointedly ignoring Lumiere’s _“Aaah!_ ” and Plumette’s teasing nudge-nudge with her elbow into his ribs.

Belle grinned, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

“So much! The chapel in Villeneuve has a beautiful collection of books.”

“Any favourites?”

“ _Romeo and Juliet_.”

Adam just about choked on his forkful of food. “ _What?!_ ” he blurted out. “ _That_ is your favourite?”

“It’s a romance.”

“Hm,” he grunted, put out by this. “With all that pining and misery?”

“There’s no pining and misery, thank you. There is just romance.”

Meanwhile, Lumiere and Plumette were regarding Belle with great admiration.

“Ah!” Lumiere said, “Anyone who loves _Romeo and Juliet_ is a friend of mine.”

Adam shot him a look; he just shrugged and grinned in response, not apologetic in the slightest. He resisted rolling his eyes, especially in the presence of company.

Instead, he addressed Belle again. “I recall donating copies of other Shakespeare plays to that chapel.”

“I’ve read those too.”

Adam wanted to demand how she could have read them and _still_ have that godforsaken _Romeo and Juliet_ be her top favourite.

“I quite like his _Much Ado About Nothing_ ,” Belle said, “I should say, Beatrice is my favourite character in that play.”

“There was also _Hamlet_ and _Antony and Cleo—_ ”

“I’ve read that one!”

_Of course she has. It’s a romance._

Finished with his meal, Adam replaced his knife and fork on the plate, picking up his napkin and wiping his hands with it.

“Have you ever been in a library?” he asked her.

“Not many,” she admitted, “Just small ones and the chapel’s library in Villeneuve. I should love to see a magnificent library with hundreds of books to devour.”

Expectant eyes roved over to him, another little nudge from Plumette.

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” he said, “For this castle has a library that has shelves of books—”

“Over several stories of shelves—” Cogsworth added.

“—with every story you can imagine, and all the knowledge you will need.”

Belle, who had already finished her lunch too, scraped her chair back and stood up. She tilted her head at him when he did not move from his chair.

“Are you not going to take me to your library?”

If anything was going to wholly endear her to him, then her great desire to see the library as grand as his was more than enough. Clearly, her passion for reading burned within her just as fiercely as it did within him. No bookworm liked to be kept waiting when they knew there were hundreds of books waiting to be cracked open somewhere.

The prince acknowledged the others at his table, already pushing his own chair back.

“If you will excuse me, everyone, I must go show Belle my library.”

“Then go, do it,” Lumiere urged, his grin stretching ear to ear—no doubt he was already imagining some possible romantic outcome.

Adam could feel all their eyes following him as he went around the table, as did Belle, meeting her at the open doors. She raised an eyebrow expectantly at him when he stopped before her, noticing for the first time the tiny freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks. She really _was_ a very pretty young lady.

“Well?”

Adam lifted up his arm, offering it to her as a gentleman ought. With a little smile of her own, she linked her hand over his lower arm, fingers strong against his wrist.

“Let us go, then, to the library where a thousand stories await your imagination,” Adam said, letting just a little bit of his more dramatic flair show, “Let us then journey.”

His arm stayed linked with hers as he led her to the library with its great oaken doors and an interior whose walls were just shelves and shelves of many hundreds of books waiting to be read by new eyes.

When they stood just before the great doors of the library, Adam unlinked his arm from Belle’s, stepping in front of her, hands landing on the golden handles. He was about to open the doors when he stopped, turning back to the young woman with a generous grin. He could _not_ wait to see the look on her face when she beheld the library.

“Belle, before I open the doors, first, you must close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“I want it to be a surprise.”

She obediently closed her eyes, a smile lilting upon her red lips, expectation in every part of her face. Seeing her eyes were tight shut, Adam turned back to the doors and pushed them open, letting them fly away from his hands, hearing them bump gently against the walls behind them.

“Reach out your hands,” he said, and she did, her hands coming forward, palms up. He slipped his hands over hers, walking backwards as he gently guided her into the heart of the library, his heart pounding with anticipation. Once he had found a perfect spot for her to witness his library’s magnificence for the first time, he let go of her hands.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

He made certain he would not blink, so as not to miss her initial reaction.

“Open them now.”

 No sooner had she blinked her eyes open, then her jaw _dropped_ , eyes popping open with great amazement. Her hands flew to her mouth too late to suppress the squeal that came straight from the heart, a sound of pure, _pure_ delight at what she beheld. Her eyes roamed over the spiralling staircases, exploring the magnificence of the rows and rows of tomes waiting for her eager fingers to pry them open in a hunger for more stories and knowledge. Adam, too, found himself looking around as well, seeing the ornate architecture, furniture, and all manner of accessories like he was seeing them for the first time. This library had always been his lonely sanctuary, and now he got to share his great love for the worlds it held in its heart with another.

“It’s—it’s _wonderful_.”

Adam looked over at her, a bright grin making its slow, almost shy way across his lips.

“Oh, but where to _start_?” she cried out, spinning around on her toes, arms swinging out from her, as if she might gather all the books in the library at once into her embrace.

Once again, Adam offered his arm to her.

“What _would_ you like to read first?” he asked.

“Oh! _Everything._ Shakespeare?”

“Ah!” Adam pointed over her head in the direction of the shelf that was home to Shakespeare’s plays. “I know the way.”

Belle grinned, eyes bright with her excitement as she took his arm again. “Then take me there, Prince Adam, I want to go.”

“Then let’s go and visit another land in another time.”

And, arm in arm, they made their merry way to journey into the pages of another world.

 

**THE END.**


End file.
